MISADVENTURES 


OSEPH 


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The  Misadventures  of  Joseph 


By    J.    J.    BELL 


The  Misadventures  of  Joseph 

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fectly irresistible  to  any  one  who  loves  a  straightfor- 
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And  now  the  rain  came  down  in  earnest  (see  page  33) 


The 

Misadventures  of  Joseph 


BY 
J.  J.  BELL 

AUTHOR  OF 

'  Oh  I  Christina! '"    "Whither  Thou  Goest,"  "Wee  Mac f re eg or, ' 
"Wuttie  McWatties  Master"  etc. 


NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  TORONTO 

Fleming    H.     Revell    Company 

LONDON     AND    EDINBURGH 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  125  North  Wabash  Ave. 
Toronto:  25  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  100  Princes  Street 


(o 


To 
JAMES  GIBSON 


712503 


CONTENTS 


PACK 

I  NAMESAKES                                -      9 

II  THE  TREAT  AND  THE  TREATMENT  27 

III  THE  PLEDGE  39 

IV  THE  OPPOSITION  MAN        -        -    65 
V  A  COSTLY  NAP                                87 

VI  A  BID  FOR  FAME      -                 -    98 

VII  "THE  WEE  DUG"                  -      119 

VIII  FIVE  AND  THIRTY  SHILLINGS     -  131 

IX  His  OLD  ENEMY   -        -        -       153 

X  AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH  -        -  171 


NAMESAKES 

MR.  JOSEPH  REDHORN,  the  Fairport 
painter,  paper-hanger  and  decorator, 
as  he  was  given  to  styling  himself,  was 
never  in  the  best  of  humours  when  roused  from 
a  Saturday  afternoon  nap ;  and  on  this  occasion 
his  irritation  was  not  lessened  by  the  discovery 
of  Mr.  John  McNab,  the  reputed  oldest  inhabi- 
tant, on  the  doorstep  of  his  bachelor  abode.  So 
far  as  Joseph's  experience  went,  a  visit  from 
Mr.  McNab  meant  little  more  than  a  dreary 
dissertation  on  the  latter's  great  age  and  a 
notable  shrinkage  in  the  former's  stock  of  gin- 
ger-wine. 

Nevertheless,  the  painter's  invitation  to  enter, 
though  interrupted  by  a  yawn,  was  not  inhos- 
pitable. "I  hope  ye're  weel,  John,"  he  said, 
guiding  the  old  man  to  the  shabby,  comfortable 
easy  chair. 

"Fine."  The  reply  was  delivered  with  un- 
wonted briskness.  Mr.  McNab  seated  himself, 
looked  about  him,  grinned  and  rubbed  his  hands. 
9 


io  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"I'm  no'  gaun  to  bide  a  meenute,  Joseph.  I 
merely  drapped  in  to  bid  ye  come  an'  ha'e  yer 
supper  wi'  us  the  nicht." 

"Aw!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Redhorn,  who  was 
more  used  to  entertaining  than  to  being  enter- 
tained. He  stroked  his  long  nose  and  blinked 
doubtingly  at  his  visitor. 

"I'm  no'  jokin',"  said  Mr.  McNab.  "The  auld 
wife  has  made  a  pie,  an'  I've  got  a  gran'  surprise 
for  ye!" 

"Weel,  I'm  sure  it's  excessively  kind  o'  ye," 
the  painter  said,  recovering  confidence  in  him- 
self and  humanity  generally.  "If  ye'll  wait  for 
three  meenutes,  I'll  gi'e  masel'  a  bit  tosh  up. 
Fortunately,  I  pit  on  a  clean  sark,  etceetera, 
afore  I  had  ma  dinner  the  day."  He  went  over 
to  the  sink.  "I'll  jist  get  rid  o'  the  dews  o' 
kindly  sleep,  as  it  were,  an'  then — " 

"Phoo!"  exclaimed  Mr.  McNab,  "it's  terrible 
warm  the  day!"  He  cast  a  wistful  glance  in 
the  direction  of  a  certain  cupboard. 

"It  is  that,"  agreed  Joseph,  turning  on  the 
tap.  "It's  no'  the  weather  for  ginger-wine,  or 
I  wud— " 

"There's  a  chill  in  the  heat,  too,"  said  Mr. 
MdNab.  "If  ye  was  as  auld  as  me — " 

"Wud  ye  try  a  taste  o'  ginger-wine,  John?" 

"Oh,  weel,  I'm  no  parteec'lar;  but  I'll  tak'  a 


NAMESAKES  n 

taste — for  comp'ny's  sake.  I'll  wait  till  ye've 
feenished  washin'  yer  face." 

"I'll  no'  be  a  jiffy." 

"Dinna  hurry  yersel'  for  me,"  Mr.  McNab  said 
condescendingly,  and  quite  unconsciously 
smacked  his  lips.  "Ye'll  be  wonderin'  what  that 
gran'  surprise  is,"  he  remarked  presently. 

"'Deed,  ay,"  returned  Joseph,  who  was  much 
afraid  it  would  be  something  to  eat  in  addition 
to  the  pie.  "But  I'm  curbin'  ma'  curiosity." 

Mr.  McNab  gave  a  hoarse  but  happy  chuckle. 
"Ma  gran'son  Peter  an'  his  wife  arrived  the 
day/'  he  announced.  "Likewise  their  off- 
spring." 

"D'ye  tell  me  that?"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  from 
behind  a  towel.  "Is  the  offspring  numerous?" 
he  inquired  in  a  tone  of  well-feigned  interest. 

"Na,  na.     It's  their  first."     Another  chuckle. 

"A  singular  offspring!"  commented  the 
painter,  polishing  his  bald  forehead.  Then,  sud- 
denly, he  dropped  the  towel.  "Criftens!"  he 
cried,  striding  across  the  room  and  grasping  the 
other's  hand,  "So  ye're  a  great  gran'fayther !" 

"But  that's  no'  the  gran'  surprise,"  said  the 
old  man  a  little  later,  as  he  sipped,  with  grateful 
sounds,  the  ginger-wine  which  his  host  had  made 
haste  to  set  before  him.  "I've  aye  wanted  to 
dae  ye  a  guid  turn,  Joseph,  for  ye've  been  rael 
kind  to  the  auld  wife  an'  me — " 


12  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Whisht,  man!"  The  painter  picked  up  and 
reapplied  the  towel. 

"Weel,  I'll  no'  say  ony  mair  aboot  it  the  noo." 
Mr.  McNab  laid  down  his  empty  glass  with  a 
thump.  "I'll  spare  yer  blushes." 

"Help  yersel',  John." 

"Thenk  ye." 

An  hour  passed  ere  Mr.  McNab,  who  had 
become  more  than  usually  garrulous,  declared 
himself  ready  for  the  road.  "We  maunna  for- 
get the  pie,"  he  remarked  gaily. 

"We  maunna  forget  the  pie,"  Joseph  solemnly 
echoed,  and,  going  to  the  mantel-piece,  helped 
himself  to  a  draught  from  a  bottle  labelled 
"Dyspepsia  Elixir,"  observing,  not  for  the  first 
time,  that  prevention  was  better  than  cure. 

Then,  taking  the  old  man's  arm,  he  conducted 
him,  puffing  cheerfully,  homewards. 

The  necessary  introductions  were  in  the  little 
garden  in  front  of  the  cottage. 

"This  is  ma  gran'son  Peter,"  said  Mr.  Mc- 
Nab to  Joseph.  "Ye'll  mind  his  fayther." 

Mr.  Redhorn  nodded  and  shook  hands  with 
the  smiling  young  man. 

"An'  this  is  Peter's  wife,  Jessie." 

Mr.  Redhorn  blushed,  touched  his  bowler  hat, 
and  gently  clasped  the  fingers  of  the  pale,  pretty 


NAMESAKES  13 

girl  who  sat  on  the  old  green  bench  with  a  shawl- 
covered  bundle  in  her  arms. 

"An*  this — "  The  old  man  put  out  trembling 
fingers  and  withdrew  them.  "I'm  feart  I'll  hurt 
it,  Jessie.  You  draw  back  the  shawl."  When 
she  had  done  so — "An'  this,"  he  said,  with  a 
soft  chuckle,  "is  ma  great-gran'sonl" 

Much  embarrassed,  Mr.  Redhorn  peered  into 
the  tiny,  slumbering  face. 

"A  bonny  wee  lad,  is  he  no'?"  murmured  the 
great-grandmother,  approaching  softly. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Joseph,  helplessly.  Then  feel- 
ing it  incumbent  upon  him  to  make  some  intel- 
ligent remark,  he  added:  "It'll  be  forty  year 
since  I  was  as  close  to  an  infant." 

Mr.  McNab  created  a  welcome  diversion. 

"And  noo  for  the  gran'  surprise!"  he  cried. 
"Joseph,  what  dae  ye  think  we're  for  namin' 
ma  great-gran'son  ?" 

"Whisht,  man!"  said  old  Mrs.  McNab;  "ye 
maun  ask  Maister  Ridhorn's  leave  first." 

"Tits,  wife!  Ye  dinna  need  to  ask  leave  to 
pay  a  man  a  compliment."  He  dug  the  painter 
in  the  ribs.  "Ma  great-gran'son's  name  is  to  be 
Joseph — efter  yer  noble  sel'I" 

Mr.  Redhorn  gasped.  "Me!"  he  cried  in  dire 
confusion,  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock.  But  when 
the  young  couple  modestly  begged  his  permission, 
his  confusion  became  merged  in  gratification, 


14  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

and  by  supper-time  he  was  swelling  somewhat 
with  pride,  though,  having  drunk  the  infant's 
health  in  tea,  he  modestly  expressed  the  hope 
that  he  might  live  to  be  worthy  of  his  namesake. 

On  the  way  home  he  encountered  his  appren- 
tice, Willie  McWattie. 

"Wullie,"  he  said,  after  explaining  matters, 
"if  it  wasna  for  thon  pie  and  the  corn  on  ma 
wee  toe,  I  wud  feel  like  as  if  I  was  treadin' 
on  air!  Remember  me  to  raise  yer  wages  a 
shillin'  next  Seturday." 

Four  days  later  he  called  at  the  cottage. 

"I  believe  it's  a  custom — an'  an  excellent  cus- 
tom it  is,"  he  stammered — "for  a  party  in  ma 
prood  poseetion  to — to — "  Here  he  broke  down 
so  far  as  speech  was  concerned,  and  presented 
the  young  mother,  on  her  offspring's  behalf,  with 
a  silver  mug  bearing  the  inscription:  "Joseph 
John  McNab,  I4th  July,  1912  A.D.  (to  the  sil- 
versmith he  had  insisted  on  the  "A.D.")  from 
his  well-wisher,  J.  R." 


About  three  weeks  after  the  christening,  Mr. 
Redhorn  fell  into  a  depressed  state.  Such  a 
condition  was  not  infrequently  his,  and  as  a  rule 
he  attributed  it  to  the  fact  of  Providence's  hav- 


NAMESAKES  .15 

ing  seen  fit  to  supply  him  with  "interior  organs 
o'  inferior  quality."  Now,  however,  a  combina- 
tion of  circumstances  by  no  means  supernatural 
were  to  be  held  accountable.  Within  the  space 
of  a  few  hours  he  had  been  worsted  in  a  philo- 
sophical argument  with  his  old  enemy,  Danks 
the  fishmonger;  'he  had  received  news  which 
meant  a  "bad  debt"  of  several  pounds;  a  lady 
had  flatly  refused  to  permit  him  to  decorate  her 
hall  and  staircase  with  a  stencil  pattern  of  his 
own  invention  which  he  proudly  designated, 
"The  Redhorn  Conventional  Comet";  a  consign- 
ment of  linseed  oil,  urgently  needed,  had  not 
come  to  hand;  and  Willie,  the  apprentice,  had 
departed  on  a  fortnight's  holiday.  Further,  the 
old  McNabs  had  gone  on  a  visit  to  friends  in 
the  city. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  engaged  in  applying  green  paint 
to  a  summer-house  in  the  grounds  of  the  laird, 
smote  a  fly  on  his  nose,  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  was,  among  other  dismal  things, 
a  "shupremely  shuperfluous  indiveedual,"  which, 
being  interpreted,  meant  simply  that  'he  was  feel- 
ing lonesome. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  he  welcomed  the 
greeting  of  Jamie  Caldwell,  a  gardener  on  the 
estate,  and  a  person  with  whom  he  had  hitherto 
enjoyed  little  more  than  a  nodding  acquaint- 
ance. 


16  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Warm,"  said  Jamie,  briefly  but  pleasantly, 
halting  as  though  to  light  his  pipe. 

"Ay,  it's  warm,"  said  Joseph,  "and  the  flies 
is  something  atrocious." 

"Ay,  they're  bad  the  day — A'  the  same,  I  wish 
I  had  your  job,  Ridhorn." 

"Dae  ye?"  said  the  painter  dryly.  "What's 
wrang  with  the  gardenin'?" 

"In  ma  opeenion,"  the  gardener  remarked,  not 
without  hesitation,  "the  pentin's  what  ye  might 
ca'  a  noble  trade." 

Mr.  Redhorn  methodically  laid  his  brush 
across  the  rim  of  the  paint-pot,  folded  his  arms, 
and  faced  the  speaker. 

"Caldwell,"  he  said  warmly,  "I  didna  ken  there 
was  a  man  in  Fairport  wi'  sich  a  lofty  mind. 
Though  it  has  been  prostituted  by  obscene  char- 
acters that  ha'e  caused  it  to  stink  in  the  estima- 
tion of  the  public  through  their  gross  unpunc- 
tuality,  slovenliness,  trickery,  etceetera — the 
pentin'  trade  is,  as  ye  observe,  a  noble  trade — 
or  profession — and  I'm  prood  to  be  its  devotee. 
An'  I'm  obleeged  to  ye  for  yer  inspirin'  words 
o'  appreciation — Dash  the  flies!" 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Mr.  Caldwell  was 
somewhat  taken  aback  by  the  unexpected  torrent 
of  eloquence,  the  source  of  which  he  had  un- 
wittingly tapped.  Recovering  his  wits,  he  spat 
gracefully  upon  a  calceolaria,  and  said :  "It's  you 


NAMESAKES  17 

for  the  speechify  in' !  Ye  should  be  in  the  Hoose 
o'  Commons,  Ridhorn.  By  gum !  ye  would  mak' 
the  sleepy-heids  sit  up." 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head.  "Ma  verbosity 
got  the  better  o'  me  the  noo,"  he  said  modestly. 
"Still,  I  couldna  but  be  gratified  at  yer  remark, 
espaycially  comin'  frae  a  beautifier  o'  the  uni- 
verse like  yersel'." 

"Oh,  we're  a'  daein'  oor  best  in  that  line,  I 
hope,"  Mr.  Caldwell  returned  carelessly.  "But 
I  suppose  ye  prefer  something  fancier  nor  a 
summer-house  to  pent.  This  doesna  gi'e  ye  a 
chance  for  to  show  yer  skill." 

"True,"  replied  the  painter,  flicking  an  insect 
from  his  ear ;  "but  we've  got  to  tak'  the  rough  wi' 
the  fine,  the  plain  wi'  the  elaborate,  etceetera." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  the  gar- 
dener's eyes  roved  the  neighbourhood  as  though 
in  search  of  further  inspiration. 

"The  ither  day  I  heard  yer  'Conventional 
Comets'  spoken  highly  o',"  he  said  at  last. 

"Did  ye  that?"  Mr.  Redhorn  looked  pleased. 
"Wha  was  the  appreciator  o'  ma  modest  crea- 
tion?" 

"I  canna  mind,  but  I  heard  it  sure  enough. 
And  that  reminds  me,  I  was  gaun  to  tell  ye,  Rid- 
horn, that  the  greenhooses  up  thonder  are  due 
a  coat  o'  pent,  and  I  was  thinkin'  I  wud  gi'e  a 


18  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

hint  to  Sir  Archibald  to  let  you  ha'e  the  job-~ 
that  is,  if  ye're  wantin'  it." 

"Man,"  cried  Joseph,  "that's  exceedin'  kind  o' 
ye.  I'll  be  glad  to  ha'e  the  job,  for  the  prospec's 
o'  trade  in  Fairport  are  no'  brilliant  at  the  mo- 
ment. Thenk  ye,  thenk  ye!" 

"Dinna  mention  it."  Mr.  Caldwell  looked  at 
his  watch.  "Gor!  it's  five  o'clock!  Ye'll  be 
stoppin'  sune — eh?  Ye  best  come  up  and  tak' 
ye  tea  wi'  us  the  nicht.  Ye  ken  the  cottage?" 

"Aw,  but—" 

"Ye  dinna  need  to  gang  hame  for  yer  tea?" 

"Na — I'm  a  bachelor,  ye  ken — but  yer  kind- 
ness— " 

"Ye'll  be  welcome.  I'll  expec'  ye  at  the  back 
o'  six,"  said  Mr.  Caldwell. 

He  left  the  painter  glowing  with  more  than 
the  warmth  of  the  sun. 

Mr.  Redhorn  enjoyed  his  tea  that  night.  He 
found  Mr.  Caldwell  a  genial  host,  and  made  the 
acquaintance  of  his  five  children,  who  behaved 
with  wondrous  decorum  and  treated  the  guest 
with  the  utmost  respect.  He  made  the  acquaint- 
ance, also,  of  a  "fine  boy"  just  three  days 
old.  .  .  . 

***** 
On  a  black  and  stormy  night,  in  November, 


NAMESAKES  19 

Mr.  Redhorn  rang — after  several  feebly-futile 
attempts — the  bell  of  one  of  the  larger  houses 
in  Fairport,  and,  the  door  being  opened,  inquired 
in  a  faltering  voice — 

"Is  the  doctor  in?" 

The  new  housekeeper — Joseph  was  thankful 
she  was  a  stranger — led  the  way  to  the  consult- 
ing room. 

"Take  a  seat,  please.  What  is  the  name?"  she 
said. 

"Ridhorn,  the  penter." 

"I  don't  think  he'll  keep  you  waiting  long," 
she  said,  sympathetically,  encouragingly,  judg- 
ing from  voice  and  countenance  that  the  patient 
was  in  considerable  agony. 

Mr.  Redhorn  seated  himself  on  the  corner  of 
a  chair,  sniffed  the  iodo form-laden  atmosphere, 
and  groaned  softly. 

"This  room  has  beheld  a  heap  o'  sufferin'," 
he  reflected,  his  gaze  on  the  crimson  easy  chair 
wherein  the  inhabitants  of  Fairport  reclined 
when  parting  with  their  teeth.  "Oh,  I  wish  I 
hadna  come,"  he  was  saying  to  himself  when 
Dr.  McLeod  appeared. 

"Well,  Mr.  Redhorn,  this  is  a  wild  night.  What 
can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Ay,  it's  a  wild  nicht — I  cam'  to — to  con- 
sult ye — "  Joseph  stuck  fast. 

"The  old  trouble?" 


20  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

Joseph  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  man."  The  doctor  smiled 
encouragingly.  "Tooth  bothering  you?" 

"Na;  it's  no'  exac'ly  a  tooth,  doctor,"  the 
painter  forced  himself  to  reply.  "It's  sharper 
than  a  serpent's  tooth — " 

The  doctor  seated  himself  in  the  crimson  chair 
and  leaned  over  and  took  Joseph's  wrist.  "Let 
me  see  your  tongue." 

Joseph  meekly  protruded  the  member  men- 
tioned. 

"Been  sticking  to  plain  food?" 

"I — I  confess  I  had  a  bit  o'  sawmon  for  a  treat 
the  week  afore  last." 

"H'm!" 

"I  had  ma  apprentice  to  his  tea  that  nicht.  In 
confidence,  doctor,  he  ett  the  majority  o'  the 
tin.  But  he  was  at  his  wark  the  next  day." 

"H'm!"  said  the  doctor  again,  and  released 
the  patient's  wrist.  "Tongue's  all  right  and  pulse 
isn't  bad.  Tell  me  what  you  feel  wrong  with 
you." 

"Naething." 

"Nothing?" 

"Jist  that,  doctor." 

"Then — then  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  for 
you?" 

"I — I    Was    wantin'" — Joseph    produced    his 


NAMESAKES  21 

handkerchief  and  applied  it  to  'his  forehead — "I 
was  wantin'  to  consult  ye." 

"About  what?" 

"Heaven  help  me!"  murmured  the  painter, 
"hoo  am  I  to  divulge  the  query?" 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  the  doctor  once  more  said. 
"Anything  you  say  here,  short  of  a  confession 
of  murder,  is  sacred.  I'm  used  to  keeping  se- 
crets." 

"Ye'll  be  as  secret  as  the  tomb  ?" 

"As  secret  as  the  tomb,"  replied  Dr.  McLeod, 
solemnly,  though  his  mouth  twitched  at  the  cor- 
ners. 

Mr.  Redhorn  took  a  furtive  survey  of.  the 
apartment.  "Could  onybody  hear  me  speakin'  in 
here?" 

"Keep  your  mind  easy  on  that  score."  The 
doctor  rose.  "But  I'll  lock  the  door."  He  did 
so,  and  came  back  to  his  seat.  "Now,  what's  the 
trouble,  my  friend?" 

Joseph  moistened  his  lips  and  performed  the 
act  of  swallowing  several  times.  Then — "Is  yer 
charge  the  same,  whatever  I  consult  ye  aboot?" 

"Oh,  don't  bother  yourself  about  my  charge. 
That  will  be  all  right— Yes,  yes;  my  charge 
is  the  same  for  all  consultations." 

"It's  no'  that  I  wud  grudge  ye  yer  charge, 
doctor,"  said  Joseph.  "In  fact  I'll  be  real  willin' 


22  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

to  pay  ye  onything  in  reason  if  ye  can  tell  me — " 
He  stuck  fast  again. 

"Tell  you  what,  Redhorn?" 

"Oh,  this  is  terrible!  .  .  .  Aw,  doctor,  I 
canna  say  it.  I  best  get  awa'  hame.  I'm  sorry 
for  disturbin'  ye.  I — " 

"Look  here,"  said  the  doctor,  reaching  over  to 
a  small  table  for  a  pad  and  pencil;  "if  you 
can't  say  it,  perhaps  you  can  write  it  down." 

"I'll  try,"  said  Joseph  after  a  long  hesitation. 
Ill  try — if  ye'll  no'  look  at  me." 

"I'll  leave  you  alone  for  five  minutes,"  the 
doctor  said  kindly,  and  with  an  encouraging  smile 
went  out. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  groaning,  was  presently  in  the 
throes  of  composition. 

The  doctor  returned,  read  what  Joseph  had 
written,  went  scarlet  with  suppressed  emotion, 
and  then  exploded. 

"I  was  feart  ye  would  think  it  funny,"  said 
Joseph  ruefully,  preparing  to  depart. 

But  the  other  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  and 
bade  him  sit  down  again. 


On  the  following  evening  Mr.  Redhorn  and  his 
apprentice  were  seated  at  the  former's  untidy, 


NAMESAKES  23 

cosy  hearth.  On  a  chair  between  them  rested  a 
draughtboard. 

To  all  appearances  Mr.  Redhorn  was  under  a 
spell  of  absence  of  mind.  He  lay  back  in  his 
easy-chair,  gazing  vacantly  yet  fixedly  at  the 
cigarette  of  the  worst  possible  quality  which  he 
held  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  which 
had  gone  out  some  minutes  ago.  He  breathed 
heavily  through  his  long  nose.  A  survivor  of  the 
summer  fly  legions  disported  itself  in  half- 
hearted fashion  over  his  few  remaining  hairs. 

"That  was  the  third  game  to  me,"  remarked 
the  apprentice,  who  had  just  finished  setting  the 
"men"  in  their  places.  He  had  done  this  with 
the  utmost  method  and  determination  in  order 
to  allow  his  host  a  reasonable  time  for  self-com- 
munion. But  surely  that  time  was  now  ex- 
hausted. 

Mr.  Redhorn  paid  no  attention  to  the  remark. 

Willie  waited  for  about  thirty  seconds.  Then 
— "Maister  Ridhorn,  I'm  sayin'  it  was  the  third 
game  to  me." 

"Oh,  was  it?"  the  painter  stirred  with  a  sigh. 
"Weel,  I'm  sure  ye're  welcome,  laddie." 

"Ye're  playin'  shockin'  bad  the  nicht,"  said 
Willie. 

"Ah,  I  dare  say." 

"What's  wrang  wi'  ye?  Is  it  yer  dyspeepsia 
again  ?" 


24  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

There  was  no  answer.  The  apprentice  began 
to  despair  of  getting  another  game  before  the 
hour  for  home-going,  and  Mr.  Redhorn  had  evi- 
dently forgotten  the  customary  eight  o'clock  re- 
freshment in  the  shape  of  a  bottle  of  lemonade." 

Suddenly  the  host  sat  up.  "Wullie,"  he  said 
slowly,  "wud  ye  say  I  was  lackin'  in  moral  cour- 
age, or  merely  in  common  sense?" 

"Are  ye  thinkin'  aboot  the  toasted  cheese  ye 
had  for  tea?" 

"Na,  na!" 

Willie  considered.  "Are  ye  thinkin'  aboot  the 
silver  mugs,  Maister  Ridhorn?" 

"Ay.  .  .  .  Which  am  I  lackin'  in — moral 
courage,  or — " 

"Both,"  said  Willie.  "Are  ye  no'  for  anither 
game?" 

Mr.  Redhorn  grunted.  "But  hoo,  I  ask  ye, 
could  I  refuse  to  let  Jamie  Caldwell  an'  Tammas 
Broon  an'  Sam  McLeod  name  their  sons  "Jo- 
seph' efter  masel'?  I  repeat,  hoo  could  I  re- 
fuse?" 

"Ye  didn't  need  to  refuse — I'll  play  ye  a  man 
short  this  time,  jist  to  gi'e  ye  a  chance — but  ye 
didna  need  to  gi'e  a'  the  babies  mugs." 

"But  I  had  gi'ed  McNab's  great-gran'son  a 
mug." 

"Ach,  weel,  ye  shouldna  ha'e  been  sae  saft.  Ye 
should  ha'e  stopped  at  Caldwell,  onyway." 


NAMESAKES  25 

Mr.  Redhorn  sighed.  "It's  no'  that  I  grudge 
the  puir  wee  innocents  their  mugs,  but  .  .  . 
Aweel,  I  suppose  I  should  be  thenkfu'  that  the 
baby  born  in  Fairport  the  ither  day — Finlay 
Thomson's — was  o'  the  female  gender."  He 
paused  for  a  moment.  "I  consulted  the  doctor 
confedentially  yesterday,  an'  it  was  encouragin' 
to  hear  that  he  had  nae  prognostications  o'  fur- 
ther juvenile  arrivals  afore  the  Spring.  Maybe 
by  that  time  the  name  'Joseph'  '11  be  oot  o'  fash- 
ion. Of  course  the  doctor  couldna  guarantee — " 

"I've  moved,"  said  Willie,  a  trifle  impatiently. 

"Itherwise  we'll  ha'e  to  pray  for  a  boom  in  the 
Fairport  pentin'  trade.  .  .  .  Aweel,  we'll  get 
back  to  oor  game,  laddie.  I've  nae  richt  to  cast 
a  gloom  on  ye.  An'  I  confess  I'm  feelin'  mair 
hopeful  since — Criftens !  there's  somebody  at  the 
door.  See  wha  it  is.  It's  ower  late  for  auld 
John  McNab." 

Entered  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Finlay  Thomson.  The 
latter,  frail-looking,  flushed,  bearing  a  bundle  of 
shawls  which  emitted  faint  squeaks. 

Said  Mr.  Thomson,  after  his  wife  was  seated : 
"It  was  a  fine  nicht,  so  we  thought  we  wad  bring 
ye  a  dizzen  fresh  eggs,  likewise  oor  wee  lassie 
to  let  ye  see  her."  He  laughed.  "Ye  see,  Rid- 
horn,  ye've  got  the  reputation  o'  bein'  a  judge 
o'  babies!" 

Mr.    Redhorn    laughed    also.      He   felt    safe 


26  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

enough  this  time,  and  though  he  was  still  shy 
of  infants,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  draw  near  when 
Mrs.  Thomson  uncovered  the  little  one's  face. 

"Vera  satisfactory,  vera  satisfactory,"  he  mur- 
mured, using  the  phrase  that  was  in  danger  of 
becoming  natural. 

"If  it  had  been  a  boy,"  said  the  father,  bring- 
ing out  his  pipe,  "we  wud  ha'e  asked  yer  leave 
to  call  it  Joseph." 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Joseph  cordially,  "I  wud  ha'e 
been  exceedin'ly  gratified." 

"Thenk  ye,"  said  Mr.  Thomson.  "In  that  case, 
and  seein'  it's  a  lassie,  we'll  name  it — "  He 
paused,  smiling  to  his  wife. 

"Josephine,"  said  Mrs.  Thomson  softly. 

There  was  a  crash.  Willie  had  deliberately 
knocked  over  the  draughtboard. 


II 

THE  TREAT  AND  THE  TREATMENT 

ON  a  certain  Saturday  afternoon  in  March 
Mr.  Redhorn  was  returning  home  from 
an  afternoon-dinner  walk,  which  he  had 
undertaken  more  for  the  benefit  of  his  body  than 
for  his  own  pleasure.  As  he  occasionally  ex- 
plained to  sympathizers,  his  "members  were  aye 
mair  or  less  at  war"  among  themselves.  For 
example,  if,  as  now,  he  sought  pedestrian  prac- 
tice for  digestion's  sake,  his  corns  immediately 
became  "excruciatin' " ;  or  did  an  unwonted 
peace  in  his  pedal  extremities  suggest  exercise, 
he  was  sure  to  be  threatened  with  a  shocking 
cold  in  the  head.  To-day  Mr.  Redhorn  had  not 
been  sorry  to  curtail  his  walk,  accepting  the  low- 
ering aspect  of  the  southern  sky  as  a  good  and 
sufficient  excuse  for  permitting  a  triumph  of  the 
flesh. 

Thinking  of  his  bachelor  fireside,  his  ancient 
easy-chair,  his  carpet  slippers,  and  a  penny  nov- 
elette,   he    was    proceeding   somewhat    gingerly 
across    a    recently-mended    patch    of    roadway, 
27 


28  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

when  'he  narrowly  escaped  a  fall  over  a  small 
girl  who  had  emerged  from  a  cottage  garden  on 
his  right.  She  was  sobbing  bitterly. 

"Mercy!"'  he  ejaculated,  recovering  his  bal- 
ance, "did  I  hurt  ye,  lassie?" 

She  shook  her  flaxen  head  and  continued  to 
sob. 

"What  for  are  ye  greetin'?"  he  kindly  en- 
quired. 

"Ma  mither  skelpit  me." 

"Oh,  indeed !"  he  murmured.  "An — an'  what 
for  did  she  skelp  ye?" 

"For  greetin'." 

Mr.  Redhorn  softly  scratched  the  back  of  his 
head.  "I'm  no'  keen  on  interferin'  in  domestic 
affairs,"  he  said  slowly,  and  removed  his  hand 
from  his  head  to  his  pocket,  "but  I  believe  I've 
a  thrupp'ny-bit  in  ma  purse — Oh,  here's  yer 
mither  comin'!" 

"Aw,  Maister  Ridhorn,"  cried  the  hot,  tired- 
looking  woman,  as  she  came  down  to  the  gate, 
"dinna  pet  her,  if  ye  please.  She's  been  that  bad 
the  day,  an'  her  brithers  an'  sisters  ha'ena  been 
muckle  better.  I  didna  mean  for  to  hurt  her.  But 
ma  man's  in  his  bed  wi'  a  twisted  knee,  an'  his 
mither's  busy  turnin'  the  hoose  upside  doon,  an' 
ma  youngest  is  cuttin'  a  terrible  tooth,  an'  I'm 
a  week  behind  wi'  ma  washin',  an' — weel,  is  it 
ony  wonder  if  I  whiles  loss  ma  temper  an'  gi'e 


THE  TREAT  AND  THE  TREATMENT  29 

a  scud  here  an'  there?  What  wi'  seeven  bairns, 
an'  the  auldest  no'  yet  ten — " 

"Say  nae  mair,  Mistress  Tosh.  A'  the  sym- 
pathy I  used  to  lavish  on  Job  is  hereby  trans- 
ferred to  yersel'!  I  dinna  wonder  at  ye  lossin' 
yer  temper  in  a  sma'  way,  but  I  marvel  at  ye 
keepin'  yer  youth — " 

"Hoots,  Maister  Ridhorn,  I'm  gettin'  like  an 
auld  wife."  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Tosh  looked  a 
trifle  less  distracted,  and  began  to  tidy  her  hair 
in  absent  fashion. 

"Noo,  if  ye've  nae  objections,"  said  the  painter, 
recovering  from  the  effort  involved  in  producing 
the  compliment,  and  from  the  s'elf -consciousness 
that  had  followed  its  utterance,  "I'll  tak'  this 
wee  lassie  to  the  village  an'  see  her  buy  a  wheen 
sweeties." 

Ere  the  pleased  mother  and  the  now  beaming 
daughter  could  express  themselves,  a  little  cho- 
rus of  wails  arose  from  behind  the  hedge,  and 
next  moment  five  youngsters  appeared  at  the 
gate. 

"Are  we  no'  gaun  to  get  buyin'  sweeties,  too  ?" 
they  cried,  with  one  accord. 

"Jessie'll  gi'e  ye  some  o'  hers,"  Mrs.  Tosh 
said  hastily. 

Whereupon  the  eldest  daughter  exclaimed,  "I 
wudna  trust  her,"  while  the  youngest  son  piped, 


30  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Want  to  buy  wheeties  for  masel'."  A  childish 
babel  ensued. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  middle-aged 
bachelor  was  miserably  embarrassed.  With  all 
his  desire  to  be  kind  to  children,  he  was  utterly 
unfamiliar  with  them  and  their  ways.  A  vision 
of  himself  entering  the  village  with  half-a-dozen 
"weans"  in  his  charge  made  him  feel  warm.  He 
stood  blinking  his  pale  blue  eyes  and  stroking 
the  bridge  of  his  nose — sure  sign  of  his  feeling 
at  a  loss. 

"Please,  Maister  Ridhorn!"  said  the  eldest 
daughter,  with  an  alluring  look. 

"Whisht,  Mary !"  sharply  muttered  the  mother. 

"Please,  Maister  Ridhorn !"  cried  all  the  other 
children  excepting  Jessie,  who  need  not  be  con- 
demned as  greedy  because  her  lip  quivered.  She 
had  been  promised  a  whole  threepenny-bit,  and 
now  it  was  likely  to  dwindle  to  a  ha'penny.  Such 
a  slump  is  ill  to  be  borne  by  people  older  than 
Jessie;  besides,  even  the  older  people  prefer  to 
handle  their  own — for  a  time,  at  least — before 
they  give  any  of  it  away. 

Surreptitiously  she  gave  the  painter's  sleeve  a 
timid  tug. 

That  settled  it.  Mr.  Redhorn  pulled  himself 
together — and  his  purse  from  his  pocket.  A  gen- 
eral sigh  went  up  as  the  small  coin  passed  into 
Jessie's  little  hand.  "It's  hers  to  dae  what  she 


THE  TREAT  AND  THE  TREATMENT  31 

likes  wi',"  he  said ;  "but  if  the  ithers  like  to  come 
to  the  shop,  they'll  each  get  a  pennyworth  o' 
sweeties."  A  chorus  of  approval  interrupted  the 
speech.  "Will  ye  let  them  come,  Mistress  Tosh  ? 
I — I'll  see  that  they  dinna  meet  wi'  ony  accident, 
an'  it'll  gi'e  you  ten  meenutes  breathin'  space,  as 
is  were." 

At  first  Mrs.  Tosh  protested ;  then  she  thanked 
the  painter  and  gave  her  consent,  with  numerous 
admonitions  to  her  offspring  to  "behave"  them- 
selves. 

Let  us  slur  over  the  progress  to  ,the  village. 
The  children  discussed  what  sweets  they  would 
choose,  but  the  painter,  as  anxious  as  a  hen  for 
the  safety  of  her  brood,  said  never  a  word.  The 
youngest  got  tired,  and  demanded  to  be  carried, 
and  eventually  the  painter,  who  had  never  in  his 
life  held  a  child,  picked  him  up  awkwardly,  and 
bore  him  along  with  nervous  care,  pulling  faces 
unconsciously  and  perspiring  profusely.  All  the 
way  Jessie  clutched  his  jacket  with  one  hand, 
while  with  the  other  she  warmed  her  precious 
piece  of  silver.  Evidently  she  already  regarded 
the  giver  no  less  than  the  gift  as  her  especial 
property. 

Mr.  Redhorn  entered  the  village  with  acute 
misgivings.  The  amusement  of  his  neighbours 
and  the  curiosity  of  his  neighbours'  children  were 
certainly  trying  to  his  sense  of  dignity. 


32  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Is  it  a  Sabbath  schule  treat  or  a  circus  ?"  the 
piermaster  jocularly  enquired,  and  Mr.  Danks, 
the  fishmonger,  demanded  of  Heaven  to  declare 
why  Redhorn  had  gone  and  got  married  on  the 
sly.  Some  unfeeling  humorist  addressed  him  as 
"Paw,"  and  goodness  knows  what  he  might  have 
retorted  had  not  the  little  boy  in  'his  arms  in- 
continently embraced  and  kissed  him,  whereat 
a  semi-ironical  cheer  went  up. 

But,  somehow,  the  little  boy  had  drawn  the 
sting  from  it  all.  "Let  them  gas !"  said  Mr.  Red- 
horn  under  his  breath,  and  strode  onward  with 
his  trotting  "family"  to  the  sweet  shop. 

Amid  such  a  display  of  "goodies"  the  six  chil- 
dren were  loth  to  choose;  none  would  "burst" 
his  or  her  whole  penny  on  one  sort  of  sweet, 
and  several  insisted  on  making  farthing  pur- 
chases. Moreover,  the  old  woman  was  as  slow 
of  movement  as  she  was  hard  of  hearing. 

At  the  end  of  twenty  minutes  Mr.  Redhorn 
found  courage  to  remonstrate,  and  business  pro- 
ceeded in  something  like  earnest.  It  was  then  that 
Mr.  Redhorn,  turning  for  the  first  time  to  the 
window,  perceived  that  it  was  beginning  to  rain. 
Also  he  perceived  that  the  shop  was  watched  by 
a  throng  of  children  with  solemn  round  eyes, 
envious,  wistful. 

"This,"  said  the  painter  to  himself,  "is  mair 
nor  I  expected  in  ma  worst  forebodin's." 


THE  TREAT  AND  THE  TREATMENT  33 

At  long  last  everybody  in  the  shop  was  satis- 
fied. 

"Bide  a  meenute,"  commanded  Mr.  Redhorn, 
opening  the  door.  The  rain  had  thickened,  but 
the  "outsiders"  were  still  there.  He  counted 
them — seventeen.  He  blinked  at  them,  stroked 
his  nose,  and  muttered  "Criftens!  I  hadna  bar- 
gained for  this — an'  it's  no'  even  the  New  Year." 
Then — "In  for  a  penny,  etceetera,"  he  said  aloud, 
and  took  out  his  purse  once  more.  To  the  old 
woman  he  gave  money,  to  the  "outsiders"  a  fal- 
tering intimation  that  they  had  merely  to  enter 
the  shop  in  order  to  obtain  a  pennyworth  of 
sweets  each. 

There  was  practically  no  demonstration  until 
he  and  his  band  had  left  the  shop,  and  then  the 
yells  went  up  and  the  rush  began.  Of  the  old 
woman  it  may  be  recorded  how,  an  hour  later, 
she  devoutly  thanked  her  Maker  that  the  next 
day  was  the  Sabbath. 

And  now  the  rain  came  down  in  earnest. 

"This  is  awfu' !"  cried  Mr.  Redhorn,  picturing 
himself  returning  six  dripping  bairns  to  a 
wearied  mother.  "What's  to  be  done?  Whaur 
can  we  gang?  We  best  try — " 

Jessie  gave  his  sleeve  a  little  tug,  not  so  timid 
as  the  first.  "We  could  gang  to  your  hoose," 
site  said  softly. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  then  threw  up  his 


34  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

head  and  led  the  way,  the  youngest  again  in  his 
arms.  Let  the  neighbours  laugh! 

But  in  the  untidy,  dingy  kitchen,  which  he 
called  home,  he  once  more  stroked  his  nose. 
What  on  earth  was  to  be  done  with  "a'  they 
weans?"  He  was  beginning  to  feel  desperate, 
when  through  the  streaming  window  he  caught 
sight  of  his  apprentice,  Willie  McWattie,  hurry- 
ing along,  clad  in  oilskins.  He  got  the  sash  up 
just  in  time. 

"Wullie— here!" 

"Hullo!"  said  Willie,  returning.  "My!  ye've 
got  comp'ny,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

"Ay.  .    .    .  Wullie,  are  ye  busy  the  noo?" 

"There's  a  chap  comin'  to  his  tea  at  oor  hoose. 
Was  ye  wantin'  me  for  onything?" 

The  painter  suppressed  a  sigh.  "Na,  na.  .  .  . 
But,  Wullie — eh — since  ye'll  be  passin'  Tosh's 
cottage,  I  wish  ye  wud  tell  Mistress  Tosh  that 
'm  keepin'  her  weans  here  to  gi'e  the  rain  a 
chance  to  stop.  Tell  her  no*  to  be  anxious. 
They're  a'  in  the  best  of  health,  etceetera." 

"I'll  tell  her.     Is  that  a'?" 

"Ay.  Thenk  ye,  laddie.  .  .  .  Oh,  bide  a  mee- 
nute !  Eh — Wullie,  what — what  does  a  body  dae 
wi'  weans  for  to  please  them?" 

"Gi'e  them  things  to  eat." 

"What-like  things?" 

"Oh,  sweeties  an'  pastries  an'  leemonade." 


THE  TREAT  AND  THE  TREATMENT  35 

"I  see.  It's  a  wonder  I  didna  think  o'  that. 
Weel,  I  happen  to  ha'e  a  fers'h  dizzen  o'  leemon- 
ade  in  the  hoose,  but  ye  can  tell  the  baker  to  send 
me  twa  shillins'  worth  o'  his  best  pastries — in- 
stanter." 

"I'll  dae  that,"  said  Wullie,  receiving  the 
money. 

"Stop,  Wullie!  D'ye  think  twa  shillin's' 
worth'll  be  ample?" 

Willie  surveyed  the  children.  "Oh,  ay,"  he 
replied,  "there's  nane  o'  them  extra  big.  Is  that 
a',  Maister  Ridhorn?" 

"That's  a',  an'  may  Heaven  reward  ye." 

As  Mr.  Redhorn  turned  from  the  window  sev- 
eral young  voices  put  the  enquiry — 

"Is  the  pastries  for  us?" 

"Surely." 

"An'  the  leemonade?" 

"Jist  that." 

They  regarded  him  in  silent  awe  and  admira- 
tion, until  Jessie  tugged  his  sleeve,  and  whis- 
pered, "Are  ye  no'  for  a  sweety?" 

"Criftens!"  cried  the  painter,  "I  ha'ena  ett  a 
sweety  for  five-an'-thirty  year!" 


Two  hours — also  all  the  pastries  and  most  of 
the  lemonade — had  gone. 

Mr,    Redhorn    lay    back    in    his    chair    and 


36  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

anxiously  surveyed  his  young  guests  who  were 
working  their  wills  on  his  household  possessions. 
The  four  girls  were  playing  at  "shops,"  with 
everything  they  had  cared  to  lay  hands  on.  The 
elder  boy  was  enjoying  a  lump  of  putty  as  big 
as  his  head,  and  the  younger,  having  lately  re- 
moved the  pendulum  from  the  eight-day  clock, 
was  gazing  fascinated  at  the  venerable  thing's 
crazy  performance. 

Mr.  Redhorn  was  troubled;  yet  neither  per- 
sonal discomfort  nor  fear  for  his  property  was 
the  cause  of  his  anxiety.  To  gratify  Jessie  he  had 
eaten  half  a  penny  pastry,  and  the  result  to  him- 
self had  been  so  dire  that  he  was  now  filled  with 
forebodings  as  to  what  would  happen  to  the  small 
persons  who  had  consumed  three  or  four — pos- 
sibly five — whole  ones  apiece,  with  unstinted 
washings-down  of  lemonade. 

Through  the  window  he  could  see  the  sinking 
sun  breaking  through  the  clouds,  and  he  guessed 
that  the  weather  would  soon  permit  of  home- 
going.  "I  thought  I  had  mair  discreetion,"  he 
sadly  reflected.  "If  they  become  martyrs  to  dys- 
peepsia  like  masel',  what'll  they  think  o'  me? 
An'  what'll  their  mither  say?  Oh,  dear!  I 
should  ha'e  kent  better." 

Just  then  Jessie  made  him  one  of  her  periodic 
visits.  "Are  ye  no'  for  a  sweety  ?" 

"I  couldna,"  he  groaned,  "as  sure's   death  I 


THE  TREAT  AND  THE  TREATMENT  37 

couldna.  An'  dinna  eat  ony  mair  yersel',  like  a 
guid  lassie." 

"I've  ett  them  a'  excep'  this  yin.  I'll  gi'e  ye 
a  kiss  instead,  if  ye  like." 

Mr.  Redhorn,  after  a  hurried  glance  at  the 
others,  took  the  offering,  blushing  to  the  roots  of 
his  few  remaining  hairs.  Jessie  retired  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

The  little  boy,  suddenly  wearying  of  the  clock, 
came  over.  "Want  to  sit  on  yer  knee,"  he  piped. 
And  Mr.  Redhorn  took  him  up,  murmuring  awk- 
wardly, "Ye're  welcome." 

For  a  brief  space  the  painter  forgot  his 
anxiety  in  the  novelty  of  the  experience.  Then 
the  little  boy  began  to  emit  sounds  of  a 
hiccupy  nature,  suggesting  that  he  was  still  in 
a  highly  aerated  condition. 

"Does  it  hurt  ye?"  Mr.  Redhorn  stammered, 
and  was  only  partially  reassured  by  an  emphatic 
shake  of  the  small  head. 

A  knock  at  the  door.  The  mother  had  come 
for  her  own. 


"I  hope  they'll  be  nane  the  waur,"  said  Mr. 
Redhorn,  interrupting  her  final  flow  of  thanks 
from  the  doorstep. 

"Oh,  it's  been  a  splendid  treat  for  them,"  she 
repeated,  while  her  elder  son,  laden  with  his 


38  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

putty,  asserted  that  it  had  knocked  the  last  Sab- 
bathschool  treat  into  a  cocked  hat. 

Mr.  Redhorn  smiled  sadly.  "I'm  maybe  a  pes- 
simist," he  said,  "but  I've  a  motto  which  says: 
'Efter  the  treat  comes  the  treatment' ;  an'  I  trust 
ye'll  no'  be  offended  if  ye  receive  the  treatment 
later.  Guid  nicht,"  he  concluded  hurriedly. 

Mrs.  Tosh's  mystification  over  the  motto  evap- 
orated an  hour  later,  when  she  opened  an  oblong 
parcel  delivered  by  the  grocer's  boy.  Under  the 
brown  paper  she  found  a  full-size  bottle  of 
"Dyspepsia  Elixir." 


Ill 

THE  PLEDGE 

MR.   REDHORN,  drowsily  absorbed   in 
giving   his   toes   a   final   toasting   pre- 
paratory to  putting  them  and  the  rest 
of  himself  to  bed,  was  startled  by  a  light  tap- 
ping on  the  door  of  his  bachelor  abode. 

"Wha  can  it  be  at  this  time  o'nicht?"  he  mut- 
tered, getting  into  his  ancient  carpet  slippers. 

The  tapping  was  repeated,  still  softly,  but 
more  insistently. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  buttoning  his  waistcoat,  shuffled 
unwillingly  to  the  door. 

"Wha's  there?" 

"Me.  .    .    .  John  Forgie!" 

"John  Forgie!"  The  painter's  astonishment 
was  not  unnatural,  considering  that  Mr.  Forgie, 
though  familiar  as  a  neighbour,  had  never  called 
upon  him  before.  "I  was  preparin'  to  retire," 
he  continued.  "Is't  onything  important?" 

"Ay,  it's  important,  but  I'll  no'  keep  ye  lang." 

Mr.  Redhorn  opened  the  door. 

"Step  in,"  he  said  hospitably  enough. 
39 


40  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Thenk  ye,"  replied  the  visitor,  entering.  He 
was  a  little,  middle-aged  man,  with  moist  blue 
eyes,  a  fat,  foolish,  kindly  countenance,  side- 
whiskers  of  a  faded  reddish  hue,  and  a  notably 
bald  head.  "I'm  vexed  for  disturbin'  ye  at  this 
time  o'  nicht,"  he  remarked,  crossing  to  the 
hearth  while  the  host  closed  the  door.  "But  the 
thing  couldna  stan',  for  I've  got  to  gang  to 
Glesca  the  morn  by  the  early  boat."  Without 
waiting  for  an  invitation  he  seated  himself  in 
Mr.  Redhorn's  easy-chair,  and  smiled  blandly 
at  nothing  in  particular. 

"I'm  sorry  I  canna  offer  ye  a  ceegar,"  said 
the  painter,  with  an  ironical  grimace,  as  he  came 
towards  the  hearth. 

"Thenk  ye;  but  I'll  jist  try  yin  o'  yer  ceegar- 
ettes" — he  helped  himself  from  a  packet  on  the 
shelf  at  his  elbow — "though  to  ma  mind  ceegar- 
ettes  arena  worth  the  smokin'.  Ha'e  ye  a 
match  ?" 

Mr.  Redhorn,  repressing  his  irritation,  passed 
a  box  from  the  mantelpiece. 

"Thenk  ye."  The  little  man  lit  up,  and  put  the 
box  in  his  pocket.  "I  suppose  ye  dinna  happen 
to  ha'e  a  bottle  o'  beer  handy,  Ridhorn  ?"  he  said 
pleasantly. 

"Yer  supposeetion,"  replied  the  painter  stiffly, 
"is  correc'." 

Mr.  Forgie  sighed.     "Or  whusky?" 


THE  PLEDGE  41 

"The  answer  is  in  the  negative." 

"Or  .    .    .  rum?" 

"I  can  gi'e  ye  a  nice  gless  o'  castor-ile,"  said 
Redhorn  grimly. 

Undismayed,  the  visitor  sniggered.  "It's  you 
for  the  jocular,"  he  remarked,  bending  forward 
to  poke  up  the  embers  in  the  grate. 

"See  here,  Maister  Forgie,"  the  painter  said, 
restraining  his  temper  with  difficulty,  "I'm  sorry 
to  disapp'int  ye  in  yer  quest  for  fluid  refresh- 
ment, but  the  time  is  noo  ten-forty  p.m.,  an'  I've 
a  job  at  six  the  morn's  mornin'." 

"Ay,  it's  a  peety  aboot  the  refreshment.  I 
could  ha'e  done  fine  wi'  a  dram,  but  I'm  no'  the 
man  to  tak'  offence  when  I  ken  nae  offence  is 
intended.  Ye  see — " 

"Weel,  weel,"  the  host  interrupted  impa- 
tiently, "I'll  maybe  ha'e  a  bottle  o'  ginger  wine 
on  tap  the  next  time  ye  favour  me  wi'  a  call — 
if  it's  no'  later  nor  nine  o'clock." 

"Thenk  ye,"  said  Mr.  Forgie,  as  he  helped  him- 
self to  a  fresh  cigarette,  having  chewed  most  of 
the  first.  "But  ye're  no'  to  think  I  cam'  here 
the  nicht  lookin'  for  hospitality.  Na,  na  Rid- 
horn!  Ye're  no'  to  think  that!" 

"What  am  I  to  think?" 

"Sit  doon,  an'  I'll  tell  ye." 

"Is — is  it  a  lang  story?" 

Mr.  Forgie  shook  his  shiny  head  emphatically. 


42  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Sit  doon,  an'  I'll  tell  ye." 

With  considerable  reluctance  Mr.  Redhorn 
took  the  deal  chair  at  the  table.  "Proceed,"  he 
said,  in  a  weary  voice,  passing  his  hand  over  his 
hair. 

The  other  smirked.  "Ye'll  never  guess  what 
I'm  here  for,  Ridhorn." 

"I  ha'e  nae  intention  o'  tryin'." 

"Weel,  I'll  tell  ye.  I'm  here"— snigger— "for 
to  sign  the  pledge." 

"The  pledge?"  Mr.  Redhorn  looked  hard  at 
his  visitor.  "Ye  appear  to  be  sober." 

"Ay,  I'm  sober.  I  ha'ena  tasted  a  drap  the 
day." 

Mr.  Redhorn  stroked  his  nose.  "But — but 
ye've  jist  been  askin'  me  for  beer,  whusky, 
etceetera !" 

"I  could  ha'e  done  wi'  a  fareweel  dram,"  said 
Mr.  Forgie,  with  a  sigh.  "But  a'  the  same,  I'm 
here  to  sign  the  pledge — the  teetotal  pledge." 

"Are  ye  in  earnest?" 

"It's  no'  a  thing  I  wud  joke  aboot,"  replied 
the  visitor,  relieving  himself  rather  violently  of 
some  shreds  of  tobacco. 

"But  what  way  dae  ye  come  to  me  ?  I've  never 
pledged  masel',  though  I'm  for  temperance  in  a' 
shapes  an'  sizes.  It's  true  I'm  an  abstainer,  but, 
unlike  Timothy,  I  avoid  wine  for  the  sake  o' 
ma  interior.  Ma  abstention  is  naething  to  ma 


THE  PLEDGE  43 

credit.  If  ye  want  to  sign  the  pledge,  John,  ye 
should  gang  to  the  meenister." 

"I'm  no'  in  wi'  the  meenister  the  noo,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Forgie,  taking  a  third  cigarette.  "He 
was  awfu'  snuffy  aboot  the  account  I  sent  him 
for  testin'  his  drains.  He  couldna  see  that  their 
bein'  in  guid  order  had  done  me  oot  o'  a  job." 

"An  honest  plumber,"  observed  Mr.  Redhorn, 
"is  yin  o'  heaven's  maist  wondrous  handiworks." 

"If  I  was  gaun  to  the  meenister  for  to  sign 
the  pledge,"  continued  Mr.  Forgie,  ignoring  the 
remark,  "he  micht  tak'  it  as  a  sort  o'  apology. 
Besides  it  was  ower  later  to  gang  there,  an'  as  I 
telPt  ye,  I'm  off  in  the  early  boat  to  the  city — 
wi'  a'  its  temptations." 

"I  see,"  said  the  painter,  more  kindly  than  he 
had  yet  spoken.  "Weel,  John,  if  it's  to  witness 
yer  signature,  I'm  ready.  Ye're  daein'  a  wise 
thing,  an'  I'm  sure  ye'll  never  repent  it." 

"I  hope  no'.  I  cam'  to  ye  because  I  ken  ye're 
a  discreet  sort  o'  chap — " 

"Ye  can  rely  on  ma  discreetion.  I  confess  it's 
much  the  better  part  of  valour  in  ma  case.  If 
it  hadna  been  for  ma  discreetion,  I  micht  ha'e 
been  servin'  ma  country  instead  o'  merely  beau- 
tifyin'  it,"  said  the  painter  modestly,  and  rose. 
"Noo  I'll  provide  pen,  ink  an'  paper,  an'  then 
we'll  carry  through  the  operation  wi'  the  least 
possible  delay." 


44  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

Mr.  Forgie  nodded,  then  sighed  in  a  reflective 
fashion.  "I  suppose,"  he  said,  in  a  far-away 
voice,  "it  was  the  truth?" 

"What  ?"  inquired  the  painter,  setting  out  writ- 
ing materials  on  the  table. 

"That  ye've  nae  refreshment  handy.  It's  gey 
dry  work  signin'  the  pledge.  I  could  dae  wi'  a 
final,  an'  you  could  drink  to  ma  keepin'  the 
pledge — in  water,  if  ye  prefer  it." 

"Come,  come,  John!"  the  painter  said  good- 
humouredly.  "I  can  gi'e  ye  ma  word  of  honour 
there's  no'  a  drap  in  the  hoose.  Besides,  it's 
better  to  dae  the  deed  wi'oot  ony  artifeecial  stim- 
ulation. It's  a  deed  to  be  done  in  cauld  blood." 

"So  let  it  be!"  said  Mr.  Forgie  resignedly. 
"You  write  oot  the  pledge,  an'  I'll  sign  it." 

"I'll  dae  that."  Mr.  Redhorn  seated  himself 
at  the  table  and  pressed  the  end  of  the  penholder 
against  the  point  of  his  nose.  "What  am  I  to 
say?" 

"Dear  knows." 

"Ye  leave  the  composeetion  to  me  ?  Vera  well. 
I'll  dae  ma  best." 

At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  Mr.  Redhorn  read 
aloud  the  following: 

"I,  John  Forgie,  Plumber,  of  Fairport,  being 
of  sound  mind  and  sober,  doth  hereby  promise, 
in  the  presence  of  Joseph  Redhorn,  Painter, 
Paperhanger  and  Decorator,  also  of  Fairport,  to 


THE  PLEDGE  45 

solemnly  abstain  now  and  for  evermore  from  all 
self-indulgence  in  all  manner  and  species  of  in- 
toxicating beverages,  including  Whisky,  Brandy, 
Beer,  Rum,  Port,  Sherry,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  Given 
at  Fairport  on  the  3rd  day  of  March,  1913,  A.D. 
Witness  my  hand  and  seal.  God  save  the  King." 

"Gosh!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Forgie.  "Am  I  to 
sign  that?" 

"What's  wrang  wi'  it?" 

"Oh,  naething — naething!  I'll  no'  deny  ye've 
the  gift  o'  the  gab,  Ridhorn,  but  it's  a  fearsome 
document." 

"It's  maybe  no'  the  orthodox  form  o'  pledge," 
said  the  painter,  "but  I'll  guarantee  it  leaves  nae 
loophole  for  escape.  Are  ye  afraid  to  sign  it?" 

"N-na,  I  wudna  say  I  was  afraid.  I  could 
ha'e  done  fine  wi'  a  fareweel  dr — " 

"Tits,  man!  Ye'll  feel  different  when  ye've 
signed  it.  Come  awa'!  Here's  the  pen  waitin' 
for  ye." 

With  a  doubtful  grunt,  Mr.  Forgie  rose  and 
came  to  the  table. 

"That's  where  ye  sign,"  said  the  painter  en- 
couragingly, indicating  the  place  with  the  pen, 
which  he  then  handed  to  his  visitor. 

"I  see  ye've  made  a  blot,"  remarked  the  latter. 

"That,"  said  the  painter,  somewhat  nettled, 
"represents  yer  seal.  When  ye've  signed  yer 
name,  ye  touch  it  wi'  yer  finger — " 


46  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Strikes  me  there's  a  queer  lot  o'  hanky-panky 
aboot  this  pledge,"  mumbled  the  other,  as  he 
scratched  his  name.  "But  onything  for  peace," 
he  added,  gingerly  applying  his  forefinger  to  the 
blot. 

"That's  capital !"  cried  Mr.  Redhorn  in  a  tone 
of  satisfaction,  and  seizing  the  pen,  inscribed  his 
name  as  witness.  Then,  having  carefully  dried 
the  signatures  with  a  scrap  of  blotting-paper  in 
the  last  stage  of  dissolution,  he  folded  the  docu- 
ment, and — 

"Here!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Forgie.  "Are  you 
gaun  to  keep  it?" 

"Certainly !  It'll  be  preserved  among  the  arch- 
ives o'  the  Hoose — sich  as  it  is — o'  Ridhorn." 
With  these  words  Mr.  Redhorn  conveyed  the 
document  to  the  cupboard  wherein  he  kept  his 
cashbox  and  business  papers.  "Ye're  pledge'll 
be  safe  here,"  he  added  kindly,  "an'  you,  John, 
'11  be  safe  wherever  ye  gang." 

Mr.  Forgie  rose  and  returned  to  the  easy- 
chair.  "I've  done  it  noo !"  he  sighed,  and  helped 
himself  to  the  last  of  the  cigarettes. 

The  host  winced,  but  said  mildly  enough: 

"They  say  that  virtue  is  its  ain  reward,  but 
I  hope  ye'll  be  luckier  in  that  respec'  nor  I've 
ever  been.  I  think  I  may  prophesy  that  ye'll 
sune  be  able  to  contemplate  an  improvin'  bank 
account;  an'  while  ye  may  ha'e  to  gang  to  bed 


THE  PLEDGE  47 

feelin'  less  glorious  nor  in  the  past,  ye'll  rise  in 
the  mornin'  less  gloomy.  Moreover — " 

"Man,  ye're  a  spokesman!"  interrupted  the 
visitor,  yawning  and  getting  up.  "Weel,  I'm  no 
sorry  I  signed  it — yet." 

"Ye'll  never  be  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn, 
coming  back  to  the  hearth.  "Ye  see,  John,  if 
ye  was  gettin'  a  wife — I  beg  yer  pardon,"  he 
apologised  in  haste,  for  the  fat,  foolish,  kindly 
face  had  gone  scarlet. 

"Haw,  haw !"  Mr.  Forgie  laughed  awkwardly. 
"What  wud  I  dae  wi'  a  wife?  What  put  that 
into  yer  heid,  Ridhorn?" 

"Aw,  I  shouldna  ha'e  mentioned  sic  a  thing," 
said  the  painter,  bashfully.  "But  ye  maun  ex- 
cuse me  for  no'  bein'  blin'  to  the  fac'  that  a  cer- 
tain lady,  wha  shall  be  nameless,  has  recently 
been  receivin'  the  attentions  o'  a  certain  gentle- 
man wha  shall  likewise  be  minus  a  cognomen." 

"A  what?" 

"Aw,  ye  ken  what  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn 
pleasantly.  "An'  I'm  sure  ye  ha'e  ma  best  wishes 
in  yer  amorous  pursuit." 

"Thenk  ye,  thenk  ye !"  murmured  Mr.  Forgie, 
still  blushing  profusely.  "I'm  sure  I  never 
thought  ye  guessed  onything,  but  seein'  ye've 
done  it,  I'll  ask  anither  favour  o'  ye.  If  ye 
should  happen  to  see  her  the  morn,  casual-like, 
I  wish  ye  wud  mention  to  her  that  I've  signed 


48  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

the  pledge.  To  tell  ye  the  plain  truth,  it  was 
her  that  got  me  to  dae  it.  She  said — But  never 
heed  about  that  the  noo.  Will  ye  tell  her,  if 
ye  see  her?" 

"I'll  mak'  a  p'int  o'  seem'  her,"  was  the  warm 
reply.  "Depend  on  me!  It  is — is  it  ower  early 
for  congratulations,  etceetera?" 

"Ay,  it's  a  wee  thing  early  yet.  I'm  greatly 
obleeged  to  ye.  But  ye'll  no'  mention  it  to  ony- 
body  but  her — eh  ?" 

"As  heaven  is  ma  witness,"  declared  the 
painter,  who  was  not  a  little  excited,  "I'll  no' 
breathe  it  to  a  livin'  soul  excep'  her." 

"Thenk  ye.  ...  Weel,  I'll  awa'  hame  to  ma 
bed.  I  could  ha'e  done  fine  wi'  a — " 

"Listen,  John!  If  at  ony  time  ye  are  tor- 
mented by  a  consumin'  thirst,  jist  drap  in  here. 
I'll  ha'e  a  bottle  o'  ginger  wine  ready.  It's  no' 
a  beverage  that  induces  ye  to  sing,  dance,  or 
break  windows,  but  it's  cosy  on  the  interior  an' 
is  said  to  promote  digeestion.  So  mind  that, 
John,  an'  come  when  the  spirit  moves  ye." 

Once  more  the  visitor  expressed  gratitude, 
and  having  again  received  the  painter's  assurance 
of  secrecy,  took  his  departure. 

Mr.  Redhorn  went  to  bed,  tired  but  unwont- 
edly  happy.  It  is  true  that  until  this  evening 
he  had  been  quite  unaffected  one  way  or  another 
by  the  existence  of  John  Forgie.  It  is  equally 


THE  PLEDGE  49 

true,  however,  that  he  would  have  done  as  much 
for  any  other  man  who  happened  to  need  a  help- 
ing hand. 

Fairport  was  eating  its  midday  meal  when 
Mr.  Redhorn  kept  his  promise  to  Mr.  Forgie. 
The  lady  dwelt  in  a  trim  two-roomed  cottage, 
a  furlong  beyond  the  village,  wherein  she  plied 
the  genteel  trade  of  dressmaking  with  moderate 
satisfaction  to  her  customers  and  no  great  profit 
to  herself. 

Until  a  few  weeks  ago  her  living  had  been 
entirely  dependent  on  the  work  of  her  hands, 
and  no  one  doubted  that  she  had  difficulty  in 
making  ends  meet.  Happily  this  was  no  longer 
so.  The  timely  death  of  a  relative  in  Canada 
had  endowed  her  with  a  sum  of  money,  the  in- 
terest on  which,  as  variously  calculated  by  her 
neighbours,  would  amount  to  something  between 
one  hundred  and  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
a  year.  A  month  of  comfort,  physical  and  men- 
tal, had  removed  the  harassed  expression  from 
her  wizened,  homely  countenance;  she  no  longer 
looked  much  more  than  her  age,  which  was  forty- 
three.  To  Mr.  Redhorn,  however,  she,  standing 
in  her  doorway,  appeared  the  same  as  ever,  for 
it  is  to  be  remembered  that  he  and  she  were  as 
strange  to  each  other  as  two  people  in  a  small 
community  like  Fairport  may  be.  A  passing  sal- 


50  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

utation  on  the  road,  a  bow  on  entering  or  leaving 
church — such  was  the  extent  of  their 'acquaint- 
anceship. 

Having  remarked  that  it  was  a  fine  day,  and 
having  received  a  solemn  assent,  Mr.  Redhorn 
proceeded  without  delay  to  fulfil  his  mission. 

"Miss  Thomson,"  he  said,  "I  ha'e  called  to 
inform  ye  that  our  mutual  frien'  John  Forgie 
duly  signed  the  pledge  in  ma  presence,  at  eleeven 
o'clock  or  thereaboots,  last  nicht.  Bein'  boun' 
for  Glesca  the  day,  he  deputed  me  to  advise  ye 
privately  o'  the  fac'.  I — I  hope  ye  feel  grati- 
fied." 

"I'm  gled  to  hear  it,"  Miss  Thomson  replied, 
more  calmly  than  the  painter  had  anticipated. 
"I've  been  at  him  to  sign  it  for  a  while  back. 
I  hope  he'll  keep  it." 

"Oh,  I  can  assure  ye  there's  nae  escape  frae 
the  document  he  signed  last  nicht,"  said  Mr. 
Redhorn  earnestly. 

"Weel,  I'm  obleeged  to  ye,"  she  returned. 
"But  I  wasna  aweer  that  you  was  a  reformer, 
Maister  Ridhorn.  Are  ye  pledged  yersel'?" 

"Me?" 

"Because,  if  ye're  no',  I'll  be  pleased  to  re- 
ceive yer  pledge,  though,  as  a  rule,  I  prefer  to 
send  ma  reformed  characters  to  the  meenister." 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Mr.  Redhorn  simply 
gaped. 


THE  PLEDGE  51 

"Even  if  ye're  no'  in  the  habit  o'  drinkin', 
ye'll  be  safer  when  ye've  ta'en  the  pledge,"  she 
continued.  "I've  aye  understood  ye  to  be  a  sober 
man,  Maister  Ridhorn,  but  even  at  your  time  o' 
life  ye  canna  tell  what  temptations  are  afore  ye. 
It's  no'  lang  since  I  read  aboot  the  case  o'  a  man 
that  fell  for  the  first  time  at  the  age  o'  eighty- 
five.  Ye'll  maybe  no'  live  as  long  as  that; 
still—" 

"Excuse  me  for  interruptm'  ye,"  said  the 
painter,  pulling  his  wits  and  dignity  together. 
"I've  naething  to  say  against  the  pledge  for  them 
that  needs  it,  but  for  me  it  wud  be  a  pure  re- 
dundancy. The  details  o'  ma  complaint — dys- 
peepsia — arena  c'h'ice  enough  for  female  ears, 
but  I  may  tell  ye  in  confidence  that  the  flowin' 
bowl  can  never  ha'e  charms  for  me." 

"Ye  micht  get  better  o'  yer  complaint,"  said 
Miss  Thomson,  in  a  tone  that  sounded  heartless 
to  the  painter. 

"In  the  event  o'  sich  a  miracle  takin'  place," 
he  returned  almost  sharply,  "I  wud  feel  justified 
in  drainin'  a  bumper  to  the  man  or  medicine  that 
cured  me." 

Miss  Thomson  shook  her  head. 

"I  didna  think  ye  was  a  man  o'  levity,"  she 
sighed. 

"Weel,  I  didna  come  here  to  hurt  yer  feelin's, 
he  said  gently,  "n®r  to  discuss  masel',  either.  If 


52  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

there's  ony  answer,  I'll  be  pleased  to  convey  it 
to  him  when  he  comes  off  the  evenin'  boat." 

"Oh,  ye  can  say  I'm  exceedin'ly  pleased  at 
what  he's  done,"  she  said,  adding,  as  though  it 
was  an  afterthought:  "An'  ye  can  tell  him  he 
needna  trouble  to  call  the  nicht,  because  I'll  ha'e 
anither  veesitor." 

"Yer  instructions'll  ha'e  ma  best  attention," 
Mr.  Redhorn  replied.  He  touched  his  hat,  and 
left  her  looking  rather  wistfully  after  him. 

As  he  passed  down  the  path  leading  to  the 
main  road,  he  felt  depressed. 

"She  doesna  seem,"  he  reflected,  "to  be  pas- 
sionately attached  to  him.  .  .  .  But  maybe 
she's  coy." 

Turning  into  the  road,  he  encountered  Danks, 
the  fishmonger. 

"Weel,  Ridhorn,"  said  that  worthy,  "has  she 
got  ye  to  sign  the  pledge?" 

The  painter  was  taken  aback,  but  managed  to 
reply — 

"Whether  she  has  or  no',  Danks,  we'll  no' 
laugh  at  her." 

"I'm  thinkin'  the  laugh's  on  her  side.  D'ye 
ken  hoo  mony  men  she's  got  to  sign  the  pledge, 
since  she  cam'  into  'her  money?  Nine!  An' 
every  man  o'  them  is  a  bachelor,  excep'  yin  that's 
a  widower.  An'  nane  o'  them  was  ever  a  hard 
drinker;  some  was  practically  teetotal." 


THE  PLEDGE  53 

"Criftens!"  the  painter  ejaculated. 

Banks  grinned. 

"An'  each  man  o'  the  nine — or  is  it  ten,  Rid- 
horn? — thinks  he's  gaun  to  marry  her  an'  her 
siller !  Gor !  it's  a  queer  world."  He  passed  on, 
leaving  the  painter  dazed. 

Mr.  Forgie  disembarked  from  the  evening 
steamer  without  that  glassiness  of  eye  which 
usually  distinguished  him  immediately  after  a 
trip  to  the  city.  At  the  same  time  he  looked  far 
from  cheerful,  and  expressed  himself  to  Mr. 
Redhorn  as  being  "fair  meeserable." 

"Never  heed,  John,"  said  the  painter  comfort- 
ingly, as  they  left  the  pier.  "Ye'll  sune  get  used 
to  it.  Temperance,  like  mony  anither  guid  thing, 
is  an  acquired  taste." 

"I  believe  ye!"  returned  the  novice  bitterly. 
"Weel,  did  ye  see  her?"  It  was  the  question 
Mr.  Redhorn  had  been  dreading  all  the  after- 
noon. 

"I  did.    She  was  exceedin'ly  gratified." 

"Was  she?    Did  she  say  onything  else?" 

"N-naething  special,  excep'  that  ye  wasna  to 
trouble  to  call  on  her  the  nicht,  because  she  wud 
be  ha'ein'  a  veesitor." 

"Aw !"  muttered  the  little  man. 

"I  ha'ena  had  ma  tea  yet,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn 
hastily.  "I'll  be  gled  if  ye'll  jine  me." 


54  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

Mr.  Forgie's  acceptance  of  the  invitation  was 
more  ready  than  gracious. 

"I  got  in  a  bottle  of  ginger  wine  for  ye." 

Mr.  Forgie  groaned.  "I  tried  a  gless  in  the 
city.  Thon's  a  terrible  drink." 

"Maybe  ye  didna  get  the  best  vintage,"  said 
the  painter  pleasantly,  despite  his  wounded  feel- 
ings. "A  great  deal  depends  on  the  vintage. 
Wait  till  ye  sample  mine's.  I  think  I'll  gi'e  ye 
a  stiff  gless  in  bilin'  water.  The  fumes  alane 
are  invigoratin'.  By  the  way,  I  hope  ye're  partial 
to  tinned  sawmon,  John,  because  I  got  in  a  tin 
for  oor  tea." 

Apparently  Mr.  Forgie's  feelings  were  not 
altogether  invulnerable. 

"My !  ye're  a  dacent  sort  o'  chap,  Ridhorn !" 
he  said.  "I  can  shift  tinned  sawmon  wi'  ony 
man  in  Fairport." 

"That's  fine!"  said  the  painter,  opening  the 
door  of  his  abode. 


Whether  the  change  was  due  to  the  tinned 
salmon,  or  to  the  ginger  wine,  or  to  both,  is 
immaterial,  since  the  fact  remains  that  the  guest 
grew  brighter  as  the  night  waxed  older.  By  ten 
o'clock  hope  was  in  full  bloom. 

Mr.  Forgie  nodded  blithely  over  his  reeking 


THE  PLEDGE  55 

tumbler,  which  his  host  had  just  charged  for  the 
fourth  time. 

"Here's  to  ye,  Ridhorn !  But  ye're  no'  drinkin' 
yersel'." 

"I've  got  to  be  abstemious,  even  wi'  ginger 
wine,"  the  painter  replied.  "But  I'm  gled  ye  find 
it  palatable,  John." 

"Aw,  it's  no*  so  bad  if  ye  tak'  plenty,"  said 
Mr.  Forgie,  after  a  generous  gulp.  "I'll  help 
masel'  to  anither  o'  yer  ceegarettes,  if  ye've  nae 
objections,"  he  went  on,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
words.  "On  the  whole,  Ridhorn,  I  feel  inclined 
to  hope  for  the  best  wi'  regard  to — to  her.  D'ye 
no'  agree  wi'  me?" 

"  'Nil  desperandum'  is  a  fine  motto  as  larig  as 
ye're  no'  bettin'  on  horses  or  dealin'  in  stocks. 
An'  it's  no'  as  if  ye  had  proposed  an'  she  had 
rejected  yer  suit — " 

"But  I  ha'e  proposed."  Mr.  Forgie  wiped  his 
brow,  and  went  red  in  the  face.  "Ach,  I  better 
tell  ye  a'  aboot  it,"  he  said,  laughing  feebly.  "I 
proposed  last  nicht,  an'  she  said  she  wud  need 
a  month  to  conseeder  it.  Of  course,  she  couldna 
conseeder  it  at  a'  unless  I  signed  the  pledge,  for 
she  said  she  could  never  respec'  ony  man  that 
hadna  signed  it.  That's  the  poseetion,  pure  an' 
simple." 

"So  ye'll  no'  ken  for  a  month?"  Mr.  Red- 
horn's  glance  strayed  from  his  guest  to  the  de- 


56  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

pleted  bottle,  and  thence  to  the  clock.  Then  he 
pulled  himself  together.  "Weel,  ma  best  wishes 
are  yours,  John,"  he  said  kindly. 

Mr.  Forgie  drew  a  long  breath,  and  his  coun- 
tenance grew  rosier  than  ever. 

"I  wud  like  ye  to  understan',  Ridhorn,"  he 
said,  eyeing  his  cigarette,  "that  I'm  no'  courtin' 
her  for  her  siller  alane." 

The  painter's  soul  was  touched.  "Ye're  a 
noble  character!"  he  exclaimed  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

The  other  took  it  with  a  sigh.  "I'm  afraid 
I'm  no'  exactly  that,"  he  said  modestly,  "for,  to 
tell  ye  the  truth,  it  was  the  siller  that  catched 
me  to  begin  wi'.  But  when  I  seen  her  takin' 
sic  an  interest  in  ma — ma  behaviour,  an'  so  forth, 
I  began  to  feel  different.  In  fac',  I  wud  marry 
her  if  she  hadna  a  penny.  Trade's  no'  half  bad 
the  noo."  And  Mr.  Forgie  buried  his  nose  in  his 
tumbler. 

"Spoke  like  a  man!"  cried  Mr.  Redhorn: 
"Forby  bein'  a  noble  character,  ye're  in  ma 
opeenion  a  maist  deservin'  suitor.  Could  ye  eat 
a  bit  toasted  cheese,  jist  to  feenish  off  the 
evenin'  ?" 

"I  could!"  was  the  ready  reply. 


THE  PLEDGE  57 

It  was  after  midnight  when  Mr.  Redhorn 
found  himself  free  to  go  to  bed. 

"This  wudna  need  to  happen  every  nicht,"  he 
told  himself  as  he  blew  out  the  candle.  "I  wudna 
like  to  see  Forgie  dae  a  backslide,  but  a  week  o' 
similar  dissipation  wud  leave  me  a  corp." 

Nevertheless  at  the  end  of  a  month,  nearly 
every  night  of  which  had  meant  a  late  sitting, 
Mr.  Redhorn  was  still  faithful  to  his  self-imposed 
trust.  It  is  true  that  he  was  afflicted  with  a 
feeling  of  "general  debility,"  and  was  disposed 
to  yawn  at  all  hours  of  the  day;  but  if  his  flesh 
was  weak,  his  strength  of  spirit  was  surely 
proved  by  the  fact  that  he  had  "laid  doon,"  as 
he  somewhat  grandiloquently  expressed  it,  a 
third  dozen  of  ginger  wine. 

And  so  we  come  to  that  evening  which  Mr. 
Redhorn,  in  a  bright  outburst,  described  as 
"maybe  the  last  o'  a  series  o'  ambrosial  sympo- 
siums." 

"Ye  can  ca'  them  what  ye  like,  Joseph,"  said 
the  guest  with  unusual  warmth,  "but  I'll  never 
forget  them,  nor  you,  either.  Ye've  been  a  guid, 
solid  frien'  to  me;  an'  if  it  was  her  that  got  me 
to  sign  the  pledge,  it's  been  you  that  has  made 
me  keep  it.  That's  flat !" 

Mr.  Redhorn  blew  his  nose.  It  was  one  of 
the  happiest  and  proudest  moments  of  his  life. 
"I  think  I  micht  risk  a  second  gless  the  nicht," 


58  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

he  said  softly,  uncorking  the  bottle.  "An'  so 
ye're  feelin'  quite  hopeful  aboot  the  morrow, 
John?  Eh?" 

"I'm  no  despairin',  onyway.  Ye  see,  when  I've 
been  seem'  her  lately,  I've  aye  reminded  her  o' 
the  date,  an'  every  time  I've  done  that  she's  been 
mair  an'  mair — "  Mr.  Forgie  paused  and 
scratched  his  head. 

"Coy,"  suggested  the  painter.  "I  believe  coy- 
ness is  conseedered  a  favourable  symptom  by 
ardent  suitiors." 

"Maybe  it  was  coy.  At  ony  rate,  she  didna 
seem  able  to  look  me  in  the  face,  an'  it  used  to 
be  the  ither  way  aboot." 

"It  soun's  promisin',  John,  it  soun's  promisin'. 
.  .  .  Weel,  I  hope  I'll  be  the  first  to  hear  the 
joyful'  news  the  morn's  nicht." 

"Ye  can  coont  on  that,  Joseph!  I  doobt 
it'll  mean  anither  symphonium,  or  whatever  ye 
ca'  it,"  the  little  man  laughed,  as  he  presented 
his  empty  tumbler.  "Oh,  ay,  I'm  no*  dis- 
pairin'!" 

On  the  following  afternoon  Mr.  Redhorn 
found  it  necessary  to  make  inquiries  of  the  pier- 
master  concerning  the  non-arrival  of  certain 
paints,  of  the  despatch  of  which  he  had  received 
notice  by  the  morning  post.  When  he  reached 
the  pier  the  steamer  for  the  city  was  approach- 


THE  PLEDGE  59 

ing,  and  the  piermaster  requested  him  to  wait 
until  her  departure. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  having  nothing  better  to  do, 
strolled  up  the  pier.  As  usual,  there  were  few 
travellers,  and,  with  one  exception,  they  did  not 
interest  the  painter.  The  exception  was  Miss 
Thomson.  Somehow  he  started  at  the  sight  of 
her.  Perhaps  she  started,  though  less  obviously, 
at  the  sight  of  him.  But  the  head  of  a  little  pier 
like  Fairport's  is  not  the  place  for  people  who 
wish  to  avoid  each  other. 

"Fine  day — at  least  it  was  in  the  mornin' — 
remarked  Mr.  Redhorn,  touching  his  hat.  "Are 
ye  for  an  hour  on  the  ither  side,  Miss  Thomson  ?" 
She  had  seemed  quite  a  terrible  person  a  month 
ago,  but  now  she  struck  him  as  being  merely 
pathetic.  "This  is  a  handy  boat  if  ye  want  to 
dae  a  bit  shoppin'  an'  be  hame  for  tea,"  he 
added. 

"Ay,"  she  murmured,  and  glanced  furtively 
shorewards.  "Maister  Ridhorn,"  she  whispered 
abruptly,  rtl  wish  ye  wud  dae  me  a  favour." 

"Surely — Ha'e  ye  forgot  yer  purse?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Try  and  get  John  Forgie 
to  keep  the  pledge,"  she  said. 

"Eh?" 

"Because — because  I'm  no'  comin'  back  to 
Fairport." 

The  steamer  came  alongside.     The  end  of 


line  struck  Mr.  Redhorn  on  the  shoulder.  He 
did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 

"Ye're  no' — comin'  back  to  Fairport!"  he  re- 
peated slowly,  wonderingly. 

"Ma  luggage  is  a'  packed,  an'  it'll  follow  me 
the  morn.  I'm  sellin'  ma  furniture.  I — I'm 
leavin'  quiet-like.  It  seemed  the  best  way."  She 
paused.  Apparently,  Mr.  Redhorn  had  nothing 
to  say.  He  was  stroking  his  nose. 

She  checked  a  sob,  and  continued :  I've  bought 
a  wee  business  in  Glesca — baby-linen  an'  the  like. 
I've  been  bargainin'  for  it  for  ower  a  month." 

The  steamer  was  warped;  the  gangway  clat- 
tered aboard. 

Still  Mr.  Redhorn  said  nothing. 

"I — I  wanted  to  dae  some  guid  in  Fairport 
afore  I  left,"  she  said;  and  now  the  tears  were 
running.  "I  got  twelve  to  tak'  the  pledge."  For 
an  instant  she  lifted  her  head — defiantly.  "I  wish 
you  had  been  the  thirteenth,  but  it's  no'  ower 
late  yet."  She  fumbled  for  her  handkerchief. 
"But  ye'll  look  efter  John  Forgie — promise, 
Maister  Ridhorn! — for  he  was  the  worst  o'  the 
lot." 

The  painter  found  his  voice.  "Did  ye — did 
ye  no'  care  tuppence  for  John — or  ony  o'  them  ?" 

S'he  reddened  painfully,  yet  there  were  rem- 
nants of  the  defiance  in  her  breaking  voice.  "I 


THE  PLEDGE  61 

did  the  best  I  could  for  them  a'.    I  wanted  to 
dae  some  guid — " 

"Are  ye  gaun  wi'  the  boat,  Miss  Thomson?" 
It  was  the  piermaster's  voice.  "Time's  up." 

She  turned  and  fled  across  the  gangway,  across 
the  deck,  and  down  the  companion. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  forgetting  his  appointment  with 
the  piermaster,  went  the  way  he  had  come. 

"Puir  thing !"  he  said  to  himself.  "But  she's 
got  a  unique  conscience." 

And  then  he  thought  of  John  Forgie,  and  was 
smitten  with  fear  and  trembling,  not  without 
reason. 

***** 

"I'm  sayin'  I  want  back  ma  pledge !"  The  little 
man  was  half  crazy. 

"Sit  doon,  John,  sit  doon,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn, 
soothingly.  "Ha'e  ye  had  yer  tea?" 

"To  blazes  wi'  tea !    I  want  beer !" 

"Sit  doon  an'  tell  me  yer  story." 

"Ye  ken  it  as  weel  as  I  dae.  I've  been 
diddled— that's  a'!" 

"Weel,  tak'  it  like  a  man/' 

"I  intend  for  to  tak'  it  like  the  ither  men  she's 
diddled.  They're  a'  in  the  beer  shop  noo — every 
man  jack  o'  them!" 

"Ha'e  they  a'  been  to  the  meenister  to  get 
back  their  pledges?" 

"Their  pledges  was  got  under  fause  pretences. 


62  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

Their  pledges  is  waste  paper — that's  what  they 
say." 

"Then  yours'll  be  waste  paper  likewise,  eh?" 

"Maybe.  But  I  canna — I  canna — "  Mr.  For- 
gie's  hand  went  to  his  unintellectual  brow. 

"Sit  doon,  man,"  said  the  painter  softly,  and 
pressed  him  into  the  easy-chair.  "See — smoke  a 
ceegarette — here's  matches — till  I  get  the  tea 
ready.  I  ha'ena  had  mine's  yet.  I  was  waitin' 
for  you,  John.  There's  a  nice  bit  o'  corned 
beef  an'  plenty  of  mustard.  .  .  .  Will  ye  try 
a  drap  o'  ginger  wine  to  begin  wi'  ?  It'll  maybe 
stimulate  yer  appetite." 

Mr.  Forgie  shook  his  head,  and  waved  away 
the  cigarettes  and  matches. 

"What  for  should  I  keep  the  teetotal  noo?" 
he  asked  sullenly. 

For  several  seconds  Mr.  Redforn  stroked  his 
nose.  "Weel,"  he  began  slowly,  "there's  sundry 
reasons.  First,  ye've  kep'  it  for  a  month.  Sec- 
ondly, there's  nae  credit  in  bein'  a  relapsed  mass. 
Thirdly,  in  ma  opeenion,  it's  the  only  way  to 
prove  to  the  public  o'  Fairport  that  ye  ha'ena 
been  diddled." 

"Eh?    Hoo  d'ye  mak'  that  oot?" 

"Because,  if  ye  keep  yer  pledge,  the  public'll 
naturally  asshume  that  ye  took  it  oreeginally  for 
yer  ain  pleasure  an'  satisfaction." 

"Oh!" 


THE  PLEDGE  63 

"I  may  say  that  I'm  ready  to  drap  a  hint  here 
an'  there  to  that  effec'.  I  dinna  ask  ye,"  the 
painter  continued,  "to  conseeder  ma  feelin's  in 
the  matter,  Jo'hn.  If  ye  demanded  back  the 
pledge,  I  wud  jist  ha'e  to  gi'e  ye  back  yer  ain 
property.  An'  then  it  wud  be  me  that  had  been 
diddled." 

"Na,  na!" 

"But  ay !  At  least,  that's  the  way  I  wud  feel 
aboot  it.  It's  true  that  I  had  naething  to  dae 
wi'  hoistin'  the  flag  o'  temperance,  so  to  speak, 
but—" 

"But  by  Go !"  suddenly  cried  the  little  man,  "ye 
kep'  it  flyin'!" 

"I  didna  mean  that.  Naebody  could  ha'e  done 
that  but  yersel'.  I  was  gaun  to  say  I  wud  be 
vexed  to  se  eit  hauled  doon  noo."  Mr.  Red- 
horn  laid  a  'hand  on  the  other's  shoulder.  "I 
wud  like  to  think,"  he  said  heavily,  "that  there 
was  one  man  in  the  dizzen  that  courted  her." 

There  was  a  silence.  Doubtless  the  picture 
then  of  these  two  middle-aged  men — the  long, 
melancholy  visage,  the  fat,  foolish,  kindly  coun- 
tenance— was  more  odd  than  impressive;  but 
we  can't  all  look  like  'heroes  in  our  hours  of 
crisis. 

"Joseph,"  said  Mr.  Forgie  huskily,  "I'll  tak' 
the  ginger  wine — neat." 


64  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

The  painter,  his  face  illuminated,  fetched  a 
brimming  glass. 

"Here's  to  ye,  Joseph !"  Mr.  Forgie  gulped 
half  of  the  stuff  and  puffed. 

"John,"  said  the  host,  with  much  diffidence, 
"could  ye  no'  drink  the  rest  to — her  ?  She  meant 
weel." 

The  little  man's  lips  came  together,  and  an 
angry  colour  suffused  his  face. 

"I  admit  there's  nae  justifyin'  her  methods," 
Mr.  Redhorn  went  on,  "an*  if  ye  was  wantin' 
revenge,  it  could  be  easily  managed,  for  she 
thinks  she's  left  a  dizzen  reformed  characters 
in  Fairport.  But  if  there's  ony  person  been  badly 
diddled  in  the  affair,  it's  her,  puir  thing — John, 
ye  can  afford  to  drink  her  health — in  silence,  if 
ye  prefer/'  The  painter  turned  to  the  fire,  for 
the  kettle  was  boiling. 

Shamefacedly  the  little  man  emptied  the 
glass. 


IV 
THE  OPPOSITION   MAN 

WHEN  the  door  had  closed  on  the 
bringer  of  ill-tidings,  Mr.  Redhorn  re- 
seated himself  at  the  table,  smoothed 
his  remaining  hairs  with  an  unsteady  palm, 
sighed,  and  turned  to  his  apprentice,  whom  he 
'happened  to  be  entertaining  to  tea. 

"Proceed  wi'  yer  eatin',  laddie,"  he  said  kindly. 
"Tak'  plenty  jam.  When  ye're  young  ye  maun 
pey  attention  to  yer  inside,  whatever  happens. 
As  for  me,  I'll  try  a  ceegarette,  though  I  doobt 
it's  a  dooble  dose  o'  the  Elixir  I'm  requirin'." 

"I  wish  Banks  was  deid !"  the  boy  cried  hotly. 
"I  wish  he  was — 

"Na,  na;  ye  maunna  wish  that  aboot  onybody, 
Wullie.  He  was  boun'  to  hear  the  bad  news 
suner  or  later — " 

"But  it  was  the  way  he  tell't  ye  it." 

"Ay,  ay" — Mr.  Redhorn  produced  a  cigarette 
from  a  packet — "it  was  the  way  he  tell't  me. 
I  confess  to  bilin'  inwardly  masel',  though  I  trust 
I  didna  betray  ma  feelin's.  But,  ye  see,  Banks 
has  never  got  ower  his  spite  at  me  for  no'  takin' 
65 


66  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

his  nephew  for  ma  apprentice  instead  o'  yersel'. 
Moreover,  he  was  aye  cauld-heartit,  like  the  fish 
he  sells.  Oh,  ay,  he  was  rale  delighted  to  be  the 
bearer  o'  the  bad  news.  It's  a  curious  thing," 
the  painter  continued,  reflectively,  "hoo  humanity 
delights  in  inhumanity  on  what  I  micht  ca'  a 
sma'  scale.  It  doesna  rej'ice  in  a  railway  acci- 
dent, but  it  likes  fine  to  behold  a  man  tummle 
on  a  slide;  it  doesna  cry  'hurray!'  when  a  bank 
breaks,  but,  apparently,  it  canna  keep  back  a 
bit  snicker  when  it  sees  a  neighbour  lossin' 
money.  An'  it  hasna  aye  the  excuse  Danks  has 
for  rej'icin'  at  ma  misfortune." 

"What  excuse  has  Danks,  Maister  Ridhorn?" 
inquired  Willie,  still  flushed,  reaching  for  the 
jam-pot. 

"I've  jist  been  tellin'  ye."  The  bachelor 
struck  a  match,  applied  it  cautionsly  to  his  cigar- 
ette, coughed  violently,  and  wiped  his  faded  blue 
eyes.  "I  wish  I  had  never  startit  the  smokin', 
Wullie,"  he  resumed;  "but  I  was  tell't  it  was 
soothin'  to  the  nerves.  Strikes  me  I  micht  as 
weel  try  it  for  ma  chilblains."  He  took  a  puff 
or  two.  "Nevertheless,  Danks  is  a  cruel  enemy. 
If  I  was  a  blackamoor  that  believed  in  the  trans- 
figuration o'  souls,  I  wud  say  Danks  was  oree- 
ginally  a  finnan  haddie.  But  there's  nae  use 
talkin'  aboot  it,  Wullie.  We'll  jist  ha'e  to  try 
an'  bear  it." 


THE  OPPOSITION  MAN  67 

"Ay,"  said  Willie,  "but  what  are  ye  gaun  to 
dae  aboot  the  opposeetion,  when  it  comes?" 

"Ye've  a  practical  mind,  ma  lad.  Whiles  I 
doobt  mine's  is  becomin'  ower  pheelosophical. 
Yer  question  is  to  the  p'int,  though  it's  maybe 
a  wee  thing  previous.  What  wud  you  advise 
me  to  dae  aboot  the  opposeetion — when  it 
comes  ?" 

"Burst  it,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"That  wud  be  exceedin'  excellent  advice  if  the 
opposeetion  was  appearin'  in  the  shape  of  a  bal- 
loon; but  as  it  happens  to  assume  the  form  o' 
a  human  bein'  conseederably  younger  nor  masel' 
an',  accordin'  to  Danks,  supplied  wi'  plenty  o' 
capital,  I  canna  but  feel  that  ye  spoke  hasty — " 

"I  meant  that  ye  could  keep  on  daein'  jobs 
cheaper  nor  the  opposeetion  man  till  ye  burst 
him." 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head.  "It's  a  guid 
thing  ye're  gaun  to  be  a  penter,  Wullie,  or  ye 
micht  live  to  be  what  they  ca'  a  high  feenancier. 
But  I  may  tell  ye  I've  been  the  sole  penter, 
paperhanger  an'  decorator  in  Fairport  for  up- 
wards o'  thirty  year,  an — weel,  I  ha'ena  made 
a  fortune.  An'  though  ye're  but  an  apprentice 
in  the  first  blush  o'  youth,  as  the  novelles  say, 
ye  ken  as  weel  as  I  dae  that  there's  no'  enough 
business  in  Fairport  to  keep  two  penters  busy." 

"Maybe  the  folk'll  no'  gang  to  the  opposeetion 


68  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

man,"  said  Willie.  "It's  likely  they'll  stick  to 
you." 

The  painter  sighed.  "When  ye're  as  auld  as 
me  ye'll  ken  mair  aboot  the  flightiness  o'  the 
public.  Changes  are  lichtsome.  The  new  s'hop 
aye  gets  custom — maybe  no'  enough  to  mak'  it 
prosper,  but  suffeecient  to  hurt  the  auld  shop, 
if  no'  to  ruin  it  completely." 

"But  ye'll  no'  let  the  opposeetion  man  burst 
ye  ?"  the  boy  exclaimed.  "  I  meant  for  to  say — " 

"That'll  dae,  Wullie,  that'll  dae.  I'm  no'  in 
the  habit  o'  meetin'  trouble  hauf -roads — unless 
the  trouble  happens  to  be  dyspeepsia,"  with 
which  remark  Mr.  Redhorn  rose,  and  taking  the 
bottle  of  "Elixir"  from  the  mantel-piece,  re- 
moved the  cork  and  helped  himself  to  a  mouth- 
ful. "Ay,"  he  went  on  with  sundry  grimaces, 
"we'll  see  what  the  public  o'  Fairport  is 
made  o'." 

"But  what'll  ye  dae  when  ye  see  the  oppo- 
seetion man?"  persisted  the  apprentice. 

"An*  what  wud  you  ha'e  me  dae  ?"  the  painter 
asked  a  little  impatiently.  "Pit  oot  ma  tongue 
at  him?" 

"I'll  dae  that  if  ye  like,  Maister  Ridhorn;  but 
I  wud  suner  hand  him  a  bat  on  the  nose,  or 
knock  him  ower  the  pierheid,  an' — " 

"Wullie,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn  impressively, 
"politeness  costs  naething — in  cash,  at  ony  rate. 


THE  OPPOSITION  MAN  69 

When  the  man  starts  business  here  the  eye  o' 
Fairport'll  be  on  you  an'  me  as  weel.  Mind  that ! 
Be  dignified,  be  discreet.  Conceal  yer  feelin's 
o'  righteous  indignation.  Pay  attention  to  yer 
job,  whatever  it  happens  to  be,  as  if  naething 
extraor'nar  was  occurrin'.  In  ither  words,  let 
Fairport  see  that  we  dinna  care  a  fig — help 
yersel'  to  jam,  laddie — for  a'  the  opposeetion  in 
the  world!" 

Presently  Willie  having  finished  his  repast,  re- 
marked: "They  say  Maister  Hood  up  the  hill 
is  for  gettin'  his  hoose  pentit  sune.  Ye  should 
hurry  up  and  get  the  order  afore — " 

"I  think  we'll  leave  Maister  Hood  to  the  oppo- 
seetion," Mr.  Redhorn  interrupted,  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"What  way  that?" 

"Weel,  ye  see,  Wullie,  Maister  Hood,  as  ye 
may  learn  frae  ma  ledger,  which  is  a  record  o' 
disapp'intments,  tak's  frae  twa  an'  a  hauf  to 
three  years'  credit.  Efter  a',  there's  a  few  cus- 
tomers I  wudna  grudge  to  the  opposeetion." 

"  'Deed,  ye're  fly !" 

"I  wud  prefer  ye  to  use  the  word  'discreet/ 
ma  lad.  Noo  ye  best  rin  hame  an'  see  if  ye 
canna  dae  anything  to  help  yer  mither.  See  an' 
be  at  yer  work  prompt  to  time  in  the  mornin', 
an'  no'  gi'e  Fairport  ony  excuse  for  complaints." 


70  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"But  ye're  no'  feart  for  the  opposeetion,  are 
ye?"  said  Willie,  taking  up  his  cap. 

"Dae  I  look  feart?"  demanded  the  painter. 

"N-na,"  Willie  replied,  from  the  door.  "No' 
exac'ly  feart.  Maybe  it's  yer  dyspeepsia.  I  hope 
it'll  sune  be  better.  Guid  nicht,  Maister  Rid- 
horn." 

"Guid  nicht,  laddie."  Mr.  Redhorn  stroked 
his  nose.  "Am  I  feart  ?"  he  muttered.  "Or  is't 
ma  face?" 

The  Opposition  Man  had  made  his  preliminary 
visits  to  Fairport  incog.;  he  had  spied  the  land 
without  proclaiming  his  intentions  to  any  of  the 
inhabitants,  whom,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  misled 
by  certain  actions  into  taking  him  for  an  in- 
spector of  telegraph  poles.  It  was  not  until  he 
had  rented  a  cottage  on  the  shore  and  instructed 
the  local  joiner  to  erect  a  wooden  workship  that 
the  truth  so  disturbing  to  Mr.  Redhorn,  so  grati- 
fying to  Mr.  Danks,  became  known.  Mr.  Red- 
horn,  being  the  sort  of  man  who  does  not  be- 
come popular  until  death  has  covered  a  few 
little  weaknesses  and  uncovered  many  good 
deeds,  was  not  an  object  for  the  united  sympathy 
of  the  villagers  and  owners  of  villas  in  the 
vicinity.  People  began  to  remember  his  failings, 
his  sins  of  omission  and  commission.  Some  ex- 
pressed the  opinion  that  the  opposition  would 


THE  OPPOSITION   MAN  71 

serve  him  right,  others  the  pious  hope  that  it 
might  improve  the  quality  of  his  workmanship 
and  materials. 

"It'll  maybe  learn  him  to  feenish  his  jobs  when 
he  says  he'll  feenish  them,"  said  old  Miss  Mc- 
Phun,  who  for  seven  weary  years  had  been 
disputing  the  correctness  of  an  account  for 
painting  a  hen-house. 

"Ay,"  said  her  neighbour,  Mrs.  Dory,  whose 
husband  had  once  been  offended-  by  Mr.  Red- 
horn's  refusal  to  accept  cabbages  instead  of  cash 
for  the  varnishing  of  a  dinghy.  "  was  hearin' 
that  the  opposeetion  man  is  frae  the  toon,  so  he'll 
be  smart  an'  up-to-date,  as  they  say.  Ridhorn'll 
ha'e  to  look  slippy  if  he  doesna  want  to  loss 
custom." 

The  village  was  full  of  rumours.  The  new 
man  was  "backed"  by  a  powerful  firm  in  the 
city;  he  was  determined  to  capture  the  painting 
trade  of  Fairport;  already  he  had  secured  the 
contract  for  painting  the  pier;  sooner  or  later 
he  would  buy  out  Joseph  Redhorn.  As  for  Red- 
horn,  he  was  thinking  of  retiring;  he  would  re- 
tire at  the  end  of  the  year;  he  had  decided  to 
retire  forthwith;  he  had  declared  his  intention 
of  fighting  to  his  last  penny.  And  so  on.  Willie 
reported  all  he  heard  to  his  master,  who  looked 
angry  or  miserable  or  impatient,  but  for  the  most 
part  held  his  tongue.  The  opposition  was  cast- 


72  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

ing  its  shadow  before.  Already  Mr.  Redhorn 
was  disappointed  by  several  old  customers  on 
whose  patronage  he  reckoned  at  that  time  of  the 
year.  It  was  plain  to  him  that  those  people  were 
waiting  to  see  what  the  new  painter  was  like. 
***** 

On  the  first  of  March  the  local  postman  de- 
livered to  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  Fairport 
envelopes  bearing  half-penny  stamps  and  a  city 
postmark.  The  envelopes  contained  squares  of 
glossy  pink  paper,  printed  in  seven  styles  of  type 
as  follows — 

P.  Smith 
Respectfully  begs  to  intimate  to 

The  Residents  in   Fairport 

And  the  Surrounding  District 

That  he  is  commencing  Business 

as 
Painter,  Paper-hanger  and  Decorator 

and  trusts 

To  be  favoured  with  their  esteemed 

Commands 

P.  Smith's 

Motto  is 

Punctuality,  Promptitude  and  Perfection. 

Willie's  mother  having  received  a  copy,  the 
boy  took  it  along  to  his  master,  who  chanced  to 
be  painting  a  summer-house.  After  a  prolonged 
inspection  Mr.  Redhorn  carefully  folded  and  re- 
turned it. 


THE  OPPOSITION  MAN  73 

"Wullie,"  he  said  slowly,  "I've  nae  fault  to 
find  wi'  the  language  o'  Maister  P.  Smith,  an' 
his  motto  is  unreproachable.  But  the  man  that 
sends  oot  a  circular  on  paper  like  that  has  nae 
mair  artistic  feelin's  nor  a — plumber." 

"I  thought  it  was  a  pretty  colour,  Maister 
Ridhorn." 

"Ay;  it's  vera  suitable  for  a  sweetie-poke  or 
a  love  letter.  But  ye're  young  yet,  laddie.  I'm 
no'  blamin'  ye.  I've  made  blunders  in  ma  time. 
I  mind  when  I  papered  a  parlor  a  vera  pale 
yella  for  a  leddy  wi'  a  rid  nose — " 

"But  what  kin'  o'  paper  wud  ye  pit  on  for  a 
leddy  wi'  a  rid  nose?"  inquired  Willie,  with  gen- 
uine interest. 

"A  rich  crimson  wi'  a  decided  pattern,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Redhorn  gravely.  "Aye  try  to  study 
yer  customers.  In  the  meantime  pay  attention  to 
yer  pentin'." 


Two  days  later,  on  a  wet  and  windy  afternoon, 
arrived  Mr.  P.  Smith,  a  youngish  man  with  a 
neat  moustache,  alert  eyes  and  a  jaunty  step.  His 
progress  from  the  pier  was  witnessed  by  the  bulk 
of  Fairport's  population.  Mr.  Redhorn,  how- 
ever, remained  in  his  workshop,  pretending  to 
mix  a  supply  of  paint  which  he  had  no  immediate 
occasion  to  use. 


74  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

To  him  came  the  apprentice  panting — "I  seen 
him,  Maister  Ridhorn,  I  seen  him !" 

"Seen  wha?" 

"The  opposeetion.  He's  jist  come  off  the 
boat!" 

"Did  ye  expec'  him  to  come  off  an  airyplane  ?" 

Willie  looked  hurt.  "I  ran  to  tell  ye  as  hard 
as  I  could,"  he  protested. 

"Thenk  ye,  laddie."  Mr.  Redhorn's  expres- 
sion lost  some  of  its  stiffness.  "Thenk  ye;  but 
I'm  no'  deeply  interrested  in  the  advent  o'  P. 
Smith,  Esquire,  penter,  paperhanger  an'  deco- 
rator." 

"I  thought  ye  was." 

"Did  ye?" 

Willie  glanced  at  his  master  and  went  over  to 
the  bench  at  the  far  end  of  the  shop,  where  he 
began  playing  with  a  lump  of  putty. 

At  the  end  of  a  three  minutes'  silence,  Mr. 
Redhorn,  in  a  voice  strange  to  his  apprentice 
said: 

"Wullie,  mark  ma  words,  I'm  no  gaun  to  lie 
doon  to  ony  man  in  the  pentin'  trade.  An',  in 
the  language  o'  yersel',  I'm  gaun  to  burst  P. 
Smith  inside  o'  a  couple  o'  years !" 

"My!"  exclaimed  Willie. 

"What's  the  man  like?"  said  Mr.  Redhorn 
coldly. 


THE  OPPOSITION  MAN  75 

"I  didna  see  him  extra  weel.  He  was  carryin' 
a  baby." 

"Ay.    Did  ye  no'  hear  he  had  a  wife  an'  five 

"A  baby!" 

"Ay.    So  was  his  wife." 

"His  wile!" 
weans,  Maister  Ridhorn?" 

"Five  weans!" 

"Maybe  it's  six." 

Mr.  Redhorn  let  go  the  stick  with  which  he 
had  been  stirring  the  paint.  He  smoothed  his 
hair;  he  stroked  his  nose.  "Five  weans!"  he 
murmured. 

"Peter  Shaw  said  he  coonted  six." 

Mr.  Redhorn  did  not  seem  to  hear.  After  a 
longish  silence  he  said — 

"Wullie,  there's  naething  daein'  the  day,  so  ye 
best  awa'  an'  amuse  yersel'." 

"Wud  ye  no'  like  me  to  gang  an'  see  hoo  the 
opposeetion's  gettin'  on?  His  furniture's  got 
soaked  wi'  the  rain,  an'  I  heard  three  o'  his 
weans  was  sea-seeck  on  the  boat." 

Mr.  Redhorn  looked  at  his  apprentice.  "Jist 
you  gang  hame  an'  tell  that  to  yer  mither,  an* 
see  what  she  says,"  he  said  gently. 

When  Willie  'had  gone  he  resumed  stirring  the 
paint. 

"Five  weans!"  he  murmured.  "Criftens! 
that's  a  handicap — on  Joseph  Ridhorn!" 


76  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

Few  things  evaporate  so  quickly  as  the  pub- 
lic's interest  in  an  individual;  few  so  slowly  as 
the  individual's  interest  in  the  public.  For  a 
week  or  so  Fairport  wondered  about  P.  Smith. 
(His  Christian  name  had  not  come  to  light;  he 
never  mentioned  or  wrote  it,  and  his  wife,  a 
pretty  woman  with  a  patient  mouth  and  anxious 
eyes,  invariably  addressed  or  referred  to  'him  as 
"Father.")  After  a  week  or  so  P.  Smith  began 
to  wonder  about  Fairport.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  taken  a  high  dive  before  a  crowd,  and  had 
risen,  gasping,  only  to  ask  himself  where  all 
the  people  had  gone,  and  later,  to  doubt  if  any- 
one had  really  cared  whether  he  sank  or  swam. 

At  the  same  time,  P.  Smith  made  friends  in 
Fairport.  He  was  a  pleasant  fellow  and  avoided 
exhibiting  his  city  ways  and  wit  at  the  expense 
of  his  more  sluggish-minded  neighbours.  Though 
he  could  not  play  bowls  he  became  a  member  of 
the  club,  of  which  Mr.  Banks,  the  fishmonger, 
was  president.  Possessed  of  a  fair  voice,  he 
joined  the  church  choir.  He  was  first  to  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  when  a  collection  was 
taken  for  the  widow  Waldie. 

And  so  far  as  work  was  concerned,  he  made  a 
fair  start.  He  was  commissioned  by  the  fish- 
monger to  paint  his  shop  inside  and  out,  and 
he  obtained  the  pier  contract.  It  is  true  that 
after  the  former  job  was  finished,  Mr.  Danks 


THE  OPPOSITION  MAN  77 

proposed  settling  the  bill  with  a  year's  supply 
of  fish,  and,  that  being  gratefully  but  firmly  re- 
fused, withheld  payment  in  cash  until  the  creditor 
was  fain  to  submit  to  a  deduction  of  ten  per 
cent,  by  way  of  discount.  Then  the  second  job 
must  have  resulted,  according  to  Mr.  Redhorn's 
calculations,  in  a  net  loss  of  £7.  155. 

It  must  not  be  imagined,  however,  that  these 
things  gave  Mr.  Red'horn  any  great  satisfaction 
or  prevented  him  from  treating  his  opponent  in 
courteous,  if  chilly,  fashion. 

"I  seen  ye  speakin'  to  Smith  again  the  day," 
said  Willie  one  evening  in  May.  "Did  ye  no' 
hear  he  had  gotten  the  job  at  the  Manse?" 

Said  Mr.  Redhorn :  "He's  welcome  to  that  job. 
As  for  speakin'  to  the  man,  did  ye  never  hear 
o'  gladiators  salutin'  each  ither  afore  commencin' 
to  stab  each  ither  in  the  vittles  ?  As  I've  already 
informed  ye,  politeness  costs  naething.  P.  Smith 
kens  as  weel  as  I  dae  that  it's  war  to  the  knife — " 

"My!  Wud  ye  stab  the  man,  Maister  Rid- 
horn?" 

"Metaphorically  speakin',"  said  Mr.  Redhorn, 
"I  wud !  But  as  lang  as  he  salutes  me,  I'll  salute 
him." 

"Aw,"  said  Willie,  disappointedly.  "There's 
awfu'  little  trade  for  us  the  noo,"  he  added. 

"Ye're  gettin'  yer  wages  a'  the  same." 

"D'ye  think  ye'll  manage  to  burst  him  in  twa 
years  ?" 


78  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Less  nor  that,"  replied  the  painter,  in  a  boast- 
ful tone  that  was  new  to  the  boy.  "Gi'e  me  a 
twelve-month,  ma  lad." 

"Ye're  a  corker!"  cried  Willie,  involuntarily. 
"I  mean  ye're  awfu'  savage — brave,  I  mean." 

"Wullie,  I'm  gaun  to  confide  in  ye.  I've  swal- 
lowed an  insult,  an'  it  hasna  agreed  wi'  me.  In 
the  course  o'  oor  conversation  the  day,  P.  Smith 
informed  me  that  he  had  been  through  the 
Manse,  inspectin'  it  afore  concoctin'  his  esti- 
mate. The  word  'concoctin' '  is  mine's.  He  like- 
wise informed  me  that  it  appeared  to  be  mony 
years  since  the  Manse  was  last  pentit  an'  papered, 
an'  that,  in  his  opeenion,  the  man  that  done  the 
job  maun  ha'e  had  the  notions  an'  taste  o'  a 
hippopotamus  sufferin'  frae  hydrophobia — " 

Willie  laughed  and  stopped  short. 

"The  man  that  done  it,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn 
hoarsely,  "was  me." 

"Did  ye  tell  him?  I  wonder  ye  didna  hand 
him  a  bat  on — " 

"I — I  preferred  that  he  should  learn  the  truth 
frae  some  ither  party.  But,  as  aforesaid,  the 
insult  has  disagreed  wi'  me." 

"Like  the  tinned  sawmon  ye  had  last  week?" 

"That's  enough !"  said  the  painter  sternly. 

After  a  pause  the  boy  asked.  "Dae  ye  want 
me  to  tell  him  aboot  the  Manse,  Maister  Rid- 
horn?" 

"In  the  meantime  I  prefer  him  to  conteenue 


THE  OPPOSITION  MAN  79 

in  his  meeserable  eegnorance,  laddie.  Let  the 
truth  confound  him  in  due  season.  I  may  say 
that  he  referred  to  ma  oreeginal  stencil  o'  con- 
ventional comets  on  the  staircase  as  deleerious 
sassiges — " 

"I  doobt  he  kent  it  was  you  a'  the  time,  an' 
was  takin'  a  rise  oot  o'  ye." 

"A  rise  oot  o'  me?"  Mr.  Redhorn  sat  down 
in  his  easy-chair. 

"I've  a  guid  mind  to  heave  a  brick  through 
his  window  the  nicht,"  said  Willie  svmpathis- 
ingly. 

"Na,  na.  Nae  violence,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn. 
"Ye  best  awa'  hame,"  he  said  presently  in  an 
almost  natural  voice.  "Divulge  naething  o'  what 
yeVe  heard  here.  But — gi'e  me  a  twelve-month 
frae  this  date!" 

Left  to  himself  he  took  up  a  penny  novelette 
and  endeavoured  to  become  absorbed  in  its  vil- 
lainies and  virtues.  But  as  he  read  he  muttered : 
"Hippopotamus — hydrophobia  —  deleerious  sas- 
siges !" 

Verily  there  were  worse  afflictions  than  the 
loss  of  money. 

Upon  what  precisely  Joseph  Redhorn  based  his 
estimate  of  his  opponent's  financial  staying 
power  will  probably  never  be  known.  Perhaps 
he  gained  a  hint  from  the  man's  manner,  which 
to  his  shrewd  enough  intelligence  seemed  arti- 


8o  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

ficially  buoyant;  perhaps  he  guessed  something 
from  the  face  of  the  man's  wife.  Or  it  may 
have  been  only  bluff  when  he  named  a  twelve- 
month to  his  apprentice.  The  fact  remains  that 
his  estimate  turned  out  to  be  correct.  If  any- 
thing, it  had  erred  on  the  safe  side.  As  Mr. 
Redhorn  had  said,  there  was  not  sufficient  work 
in  Fairport  for  two  painters,  and  that  particular 
year  brought  even  fewer  orders  than  usual.  Then 
in  the  autumn  Mrs.  P.  Smith  had  a  baby,  and 
in  the  winter  three  of  her  children  took  measles. 
Just  before  the  new  year  P.  Smith's  paint  store 
went  on  fire,  and  the  damage  was  not  covered 
by  insurance.  P.  Smith  was  seen  less  frequently 
in  the  choir  and  oftener  in  the  beer-shop.  He 
avoided  his  rival  in  trade.  But  his  manner  was 
more  buoyant  than  ever.  He  talked  briskly, 
perhaps  feverishly,  of  the  orders  he  was  going 
to  secure  for  the  approaching  Spring. 

***** 

On  a  snowy  night  in  February  Mr.  Redhorn, 
seated  at  his  hearth,  was  turning  over  the  pages 
of  his  ledger,  and  muttering  pessimistic  com- 
ments, when  Willie  dropped  in  without  invitation. 
He  was  a  bearer  of  news. 

"Maister  Ridhorn,  d'ye  ken  what  they're 
sayin'  ootbye?" 

"They're  sayin'  it's  bitter  cauld,  I  suppose. 
The  fragidity  o'  ma  feet  has  never  been  sur- 
passed." 


THE  OPPOSITION  MAN  81 

"They're  sayin'  that  P.  Smith  hasna  bought 
ony  butcher  meat  for  a  month,  an'  they're  sayin' 
that  Danks  the  fishmonger  is  gaun  to  summon 
him  to  the  court  for  his  fish  accoont.  I  seen  him 
gaun  into  the  beer-shop  as  I  cam'  by. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  having  set  the  boy's  usual  re- 
freshment on  the  table,  sat  down  slowly. 

"Aw !"  he  muttered. 

"An  they're  sayin  there  was  a  man  here  frae 
Glesca  the  day,  tryin'  to  get  money  oot  o'  him." 

Mr.  Redhorn  reopened  his  ledger  without  re- 
mark. 

"So,"  said  Willie,  "it  strikes  me  ye've  aboot 
burst  P.  Smith— eh?" 

"I've  jist  been  reckonin'  up  that  I've  lost  aboot 
sixty  pound  in  the  twelve-month." 

"But  ye've  burst  him  noo." 

"Haud  yer  tongue,  laddie!" 

Willie  gaped  at  his  master.  "I  thought  ye 
wud  be  pleased,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Maybe  I'm  ower  pleased  for  words,"  was  the 
reply.  The  painter  continued  more  gently :  "Ony- 
way,  we'll  converse  on  ither  subjects,  Wullie. 
Efter  a',  it's  a  terrible  thing  to  see  a  fellow  crea- 
ture beat — espaycially  a  fellow  creature  wi'  a 
wife  an'  five  sma'  weans — " 

"Six,"  said  Willie. 

"Ay,  six.  I  had  got  into  the  habit  o'  thinkin' 
o'  five.  .  .  .  Drink  up,  an'  I'll  walk  hame  wi' 
ye." 


82  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

About  two  hours  later  P.  Smith  came  out  of 
the  beer-shop.  He  had  had  some  beer — not 
much,  for  his  money  was  done,  and  no  one  had 
offered  to  treat  him.  He  had  spent  the  evening 
in  a  corner  by  himself.  He  came  forth  alone. 
The  snow  was  falling  densely,  driven  by  a  breeze 
from  the  southeast.  He  could  see  no  one  abroad 
in  the  village.  He  crossed  the  road  and  stood 
against  the  sea-wall,  beyond  the  rays  of  light 
from  the  few  windows  which  had  not  been 
shuttered.  Gradually  his  figure  became  white. 
Beneath  him,  invisible,  the  sea  cried  softly.  .  .  . 

Ere  long  the  door  of  the  beer-shop  opened; 
the  last  of  its  patrons  came  forth  and  hurried 
homewards.  The  outer  door  was  shut  and  bolted ; 
a  little  later  the  window  went  black.  Other 
lights  went  out  in  the  village  until  only  two  were 
left — one  close  at  hand,  the  other  very  far  (so 
it  seemed)  away.  The  near  light  was  in  the 
home  of  Joseph  Redhorn,  the  distant  one  in  that 
of  the  man  standing  by  the  sea-wall. 

Some  minutes  passed,  and  then  P.  Smith 
moved  in  the  direction  of  the  nearer  light.  But 
he  did  not  move  far.  Halting,  he  shook  his 
head.  A  sob  burst  from  his  throat.  Turning 
abruptly,  he  almost  ran  towards  the  pier.  Pres- 
ently he  was  fumbling  at  the  gate. 

"I  think  it's  locked,"  said  a  timid  voice,  and 
Mr.  Redhorn  stepped  from  the  porch  of  the 
pier-house. 


THE  OPPOSITION  MAN  83 

For  a  moment  P.  Smith  peered  at  him ;  then  he 
leaned  against  the  gate,  speechless,  trembling. 

Mr.  Redhorn  cleared  his  throat.  "It — it — it's 
a  bad  nicht  for  folk  wi'  chilblains,"  he  remarked, 
"but  I — I  had  to  come  oot  for  a  breather  for 
ma  dyspeepsia.  That's  hoo  I  happen  to  be  here. 
.  .  .  Weel,  seein'  we've  met,  what  d'ye  say  to 
a  gless  o'  ginger  wine  at  ma  fireside,  afore  ye 
gang  hame,  Smith?"  Without  waiting  a  reply, 
he  put  him  arm  through  the  other's. 

P.  Smith  went  with  him  like  a  sleepy  child. 
Indoors  he  allowed  himself  to  be  conducted  to 
his  host's  chair,  a  glass  of  ginger  wine  placed  in 
his  hand — without  a  word. 

"Sup  it  up,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn.  "I'll  ha'e 
yin  masel'."  They  drank  in  silence. 

It  was  not  until  the  host  had  taken  the  guest's 
empty  glass  that  the  dazed  look  began  to  pass 
from  the  latter's  face. 

Said  P.  Smith,  at  last,  huskily:  "We  came  to 
Fairport,  because  I  thought  it  would  be  good  for 
the  children." 

"Surely,"  Mr.  Redhorn  murmured. 

"And  I — I  had  the  notion  o'  startin'  on  my 
own  account." 

"Jist  that." 

"My  wife — my  wife  thought  I  was  better  in 
the  situation  I  was  in." 

"Did  she?" 

There  was  a  pause. 


84  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Noo  an'  then,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn  cautiously, 
"a  woman's  richt.  It  happens  so — occasionally. 
Ay — to  be  sure — precisely."  He  coughed. 
"Maybe  Mistress  Smith'll  be  wonderin' — " 

The  visitor  half  rose  and  sank  back.  He  was 
not  yet  fit  to  go.  His  eyes  once  so  bright  and 
alert,  fell  before  Mr.  Redhorn's,  always  so  dull 
and  tired. 

"My  God!"  he  whispered,  "I'm  done!" 

"Na,  na!"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  nervously.  "Ye 
maun  never  say  that,  this  side  o'  the  tomb.  Man 
— Smith!"  he  cried  aloud,  "I'm  vexed  for  ye — 
sair  vexed  for  ye.  I — I  didna  want  ye  here; 
but — but  I  dinna  like  to  see  ony  man  beat.  But 
maybe  ye're  no'  beat  yet?" 

"I'm  finished !  Oh,  you  know  it,  after  what 
you've  seen  to-night." 

Mr.  Redhorn  stood  up,  his  long  thin  body 
quivering.  "Oh,  Lord!"  he  whispered,  "is  there 
ony  earthly  business  that  isna  someway  damn- 
able in  Thy  sicht?"  He  stole  towards  the  other 
man,  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Smith, 
if  I  had  been  a  younger  man,  it's  likely  I  wud 
ha'e  got  beat.  It  was  jist  a  question  c'  age  an' 
experience  an'  a  wee  bit  o'  capital." 

"I've  been  an  awful  fool,"  mumbled  P.  Smith. 
"I  saw  I  was  wrong  at  the  start,  but  I  wouldn't 
turn  back.  My  wife — " 

"Ye    didna    ha'e    a    chance."     Mr.    Redhorn 


THE  OPPOSITION  MAN  85 

began  to  pat  his  guest's  shoulder.     "See  here, 
Smith,  what  are  ye  gaun  to  dae?" 

"Go  bankrupt." 

"Na,  na!  Are  ye — are  ye  agin  takin'  a  seetu- 
ation  again?" 

"There's  a  situation  waiting  for  me  in  Glas- 
gow— if  I  could  get  away  from  here." 

"An'  why—" 

"Redhorji,  I'm  chained  up  here  wi'  debt." 

"Much?" 

A  sob,  or  something  like  it. 

"Hoo  much,  Smith?" 

"N — near  fifty  pound." 

Mr.  Redhorn  walked  slowly  to  the  window  and 
back.  After  considerable  hesitation  he  said: 

"Yer  stock-in-trade'll  be  something.  What 
wud  ye  be  askin'  for  it?" 

"Redhorn,  if  I  was  offered  a  fair  job  to-mor- 
row I  couldn't  take  it — for  want  o'  materials." 

"Weel,  weel !  .    .    .  What  aboot  goodwill  ?" 

At  this  P.  Smith  laughed  drearily.  "Goodwill ! 
Oh,  hell!  What  goodwill  has  a  broken  business 
like  mine?" 

Again  Mr.  Redhorn  laid  his  hand  on  his  guest's 
shoulder. 

"Apart  frae  yer  business,"  he  said  awkwardly, 
"I  hereby — I  hereby  offer  ye  fifty  pound — cash — 

for  yer — goodwill." 

***** 

It  was  still  snowing  when  they  set  out. 


86  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Ye're  lucky  no'  to  ha'e  chilblains."  Mr.  Red- 
horn  spoke  in  cheerful  jerky  fashion.  "An5  ye'll 
no'  come  to  ma  hoose  till  late  the  morn's  nicht, 
mind,  for  it's  a  secret  atween  us.  I'm  gled 
ye're  no'  afflicted  wi'  the  dyspeepsia,  which  is  a 
trial  for  onybody  wi'  artistic  feelin's.  An'  I'll 
ha'e  the  cash  ready,  so  as  ye  can  get  awa'  frae 
Fairport  when  it  suits  ye.  Mind,  ye're  no'  to 
think  ye  got  beat  here.  If  ye  had  come  twinty 
year  later,  I  wud  ha'e  fled  frae  the  fray,  so  to 
speak.  Ye  jist  happened  to  arrive  at  the  wrang 
time.  An'  I'll  come  an'  see  ye  when  I'm  in 
Glesca,  an'  meybe  Mistress  Smith'll  gi'e  me  a 
dish  o'  tea.  An'  trust  ye'll  be  fruitful  an'  mul- 
tiply— etceetera.  I  think  I  best  awa'  hame  noo." 
He  held  out  his  hand.  "An'  I  forgive  ye  for 
yer  remark  aboot  the  hydropathic  hippopotamus 
an'  the  insane  sassiges." 

"Oh!"  said  poor  P.  Smith,  and  got  no  fur- 
ther, for  Joseph  Redhorn  literally  ran  away. 
***** 

The  P.  Smiths  left  Fairport  within  the  week. 
Doubtless  it  was  by  the  merest  chance  that  Mr. 
Redhorn  happened  to  be  on  the  pier  at  their 
departure,  and  Mr.  Danks  for  long  afterwards 
declared  it  was  just  rank  hypocrisy  that  made 
the  painter  shake  hands  with  them  all,  including 
the  infant. 

And  even  Willie  still  believes  that  his  master 
"burst  the  Opposeetion  Man." 


A  COSTLY  NAP 

"YJTELP    yersel',    John."      Mr.    Redhorn 
passed  the  ginger  wine  to  his  guest 

•*-          and  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Thenk  ye,  thenk  ye."  The  reputed  oldest 
inhabitant  refilled  his  glass  with  a  steadiness  of 
hand  remarkable  at  his  time  of  life,  took  a 
mouthful  of  the  harmless  warming  liquid, 
smacked  his  lips,  and  lay  back  in  his  chair  with 
an  air  of  satisfaction.  "Ye're  no'  sayin'  muckle 
for  yersel'  the  nicht,  Joseph,"  he  remarked, 
pleasantly.  "I've  been  waitin'  to  hear  aboot  yer 
veesit  to  the  pictur'  palace.  I've  been  hearin' 
a  lot  aboot  pictur'  palaces  lately.  What  did  ye 
think  o'  it?" 

The  painter,  who  had  been  up  at  five  a.m. — > 
it  was  now  ten  p.m. — swallowed  a  yawn.  "Oh, 
it  was  vera  divertin'  in  its  way.  I  confess  I  pre- 
ferred the  wild  beasts  to  the  human  bein's  that 
appeared  afore  ma  gaze.  The  comic  element  was 
so-so — made  ye  laugh  at  the  time,  but  never 
efterwards.  As  for  the  sensation,  it  was  strong 
enough — an'  plenty  o'  folk  like  their  tea  biled." 

87 


88  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"What  was  the  sensation?" 

"I  canna  mind  it  a',  I'm  thenkful  to  be  able  to 
say.  But  among  ither  items,  I  seen  a  young 
female  pit  a  carvin'-knife  into  a  chap  that  was 
tryin'  to  sleep  off  the  fumes  o'  noxious  liquors. 
Moreover,  I  witnessed  a  bad  man  gettin'  run 
ower  by  a  steam  road-roller.  That  gi'ed  me  a 
grue,  I  admit." 

"What  like  was  the  corp?"  Mr.  McNab  in- 
quired with  an  interest  worthier  of  a  happier 
subject. 

"I  didna  wait  to  see  the  remains,  if  ony," 
Mr.  Redhorn  replied. 

"In  ma  youth,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  wrought 
for  a  while  on  a  traction  ingine;  an'  on  a  dark 
mornin'  we  gaed  ower  a  hen — or  maybe  it  was 
a  hedgehog." 

"It  wud  be  a'  the  same  efter  the  mishap."  The 
painter  concealed  another  yawn.  "On  the  whole, 
I  dinna  disapprove  o'  the  cinematograph;  like 
maist  things  in  this  warld,  it  has  its  guid  p'ints. 
Ye  should  tak'  Mistress  McNab  across  the  water 
some  fine  Seturday,  an'  see  for  yersel'  what  the 
pictur'  palace  is  like.  Efter  a',  an  indiveedual 
subjec'  like  masel'  to  dyspeepsia  an'  ither  fleshly 
ills  isna  the  best  qualified  person  for  to  criticise 
popular  pleesures,  an'  I  daresay  you,  John,  bein' 
hale  and  hearty,  wud  find  plenty  to  yer  taste  in 
the  pictur'  palace." 


A  COSTLY  NAP,  89 

"I  wud  like  fine  to  gang,  but  I  ha'e  ma  doobts 
aboot  the  wife.  Is — is  the  performance  respect- 
able?" 

Mr.  Redhorn  removed  his  gaze  from  the  clock 
to  the  fire.  "Respectabeelity,"  he  observed,  "is 
a  slacker  belt  nor  it  used  to  be.  The  great  thing 
nooadays  is  breadth  o'  mind;  depth  is  no'  sae 
important.  It's  for  the  police  to  say  what  is 
an'  what  isna  respectable — an'  that  saves  oor 
consciences  a  heap  o'  worry.  But  I'm  no  sayin' 
the  pictur'  palace  is  disrespectable.  Folk  that 
like  it  say  ti's  elevatin';  folk  that  dinna  like  it 
say  it's  lowerin'.  As  a  matter  o'  fac',  it's  partly 
the  yin  an'  partly  the  ither.  I  wudna  advise  ye 
to  gang,  John,  if  I  thought  ye  wud  get  demoral- 
ised." 

"Oh,  it  wud  tak'  a  queer  lot  to  demoralise  me," 
said  the  reputed  oldest  inhabitant,  recklessly. 
"It's  the  wife  I'm  thinkin'  o'.  She's  that  easy 
affronted.  I  think  I  best  gang  wi'oot  her  the 
first  time,  an'  see  what  it's  like.  Eh,  Joseph  ?" 

Mr.  Redhorn  hesitated  to  reply.  Not  for 
years  had  Mr.  McNab  gone  to  the  town  across 
the  firth  without  his  wife's  escort.  "I  dinna 
think  sich  drastic  measures  are  necessary,"  he 
said  at  last.  "I'm  sure  Mistress  McNab  wud  be 
offended  at  naething — I  mean  to  say,  there  wud 
be  naething  to  offend  her.  When  I  was  there  the 
place  was  chock-a-block  wi'  females." 


90  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"'Mphm!"  Mr.  McNab  muttered,  dubiously. 
"Still,  the  sensations  micht  frichten  her." 

"I  wudna  say  yer  wife  was  timid — for  a  fe- 
male," said  the  painter,  who  was  growing  tired 
of  the  conversation. 

"A'  the  same,"  the  other  persisted,  "it's  the 
best  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  I'll  gang  to  Gou- 
rock  the  first  fine  Seturday,  an'  ha'e  a  spy  at  the 
pictur',  palace.  Of  course,"  he  added,  rather 
hurriedly,  "ye'll  no'  mention  ma  plan  to  her, 
or  onybody  else,  Joseph." 

"Oh,  I'll  respec'  yer  confidence,  John,"  Mr. 
Redhorn  returned,  good-humouredly.  He  was 
as  certain  as  he  was  sure  of  anything  in  this 
world  that  the  old  man  would  never  find  an 
opportunity  of  leaving  Fairport  alone ;  and  in  all 
probability  (he  told  himself)  the  whole  matter 
would  be  forgotten  by  the  following  morning. 

Nevertheless,  the  old  man  appeared  to  be  in 
earnest.  ''Ye'll  no'  betray  me?"  he  persisted 
anxiously. 

"No*  for  a'  the  gold  o'  Crusoes !"  declared  the 
painter,  yawning  openly. 

Just  then  there  was  a  gentle  tapping  at  the 
door.  Old  Mrs.  McNab  had  come  to  take  her 
man  home. 

***** 
Mrs.  McNab  was  "washing  up"  after  break- 


A  COSTLY  NAE  91 

fast  the  following  Saturday,  when  her  husband, 
seated  at  the  hearth,  said,  in  a  casual,  yet  not 
very  natural  tone: 

"It's  a  fine  day — I  think  I'll  tak'  a  trip  to 
Gourock  in  the  efternune." 

"Ye'll  what,  John?" 

"I'm  savin'  I  think  I'll  tak'  a  trip  to  Gourock 
in  the  efternune." 

"What  wud  ye  dae  at  Gourock  ?"  she  inquired, 
mildly  enough. 

"It's  a  lang  while  since  I  had  a  crack  wi' 
Peter  McTavish."  It  must  not  be  supposed  that 
Mr.  McNab  was  in  the  habit  of  prevaricating — 
unless,  perhaps,  in  the  matter  of  his  age.  But 
now  the  spirit  of  adventure  was  driving  him 
hard. 

"The  last  time  ye  seen  Peter  McTavish,  him 
an'  you  cast  oot  aboot  some  stupid  politics,  an' 
ye  said  ye  wud  never  darken  his  door  again." 

"It's  time  we  made  it  up." 

Mrs.  McNab  finished  the  drying  of  a  dish 
before  she  responded.  "I  canna  gang  wi'  ye 
the  day,  John.  The  parlour's  got  to  be  cleaned 
afore  nicht-time.  I'll  see  if  I  canna  manage 
next  Seturday,  or  the  next  again." 

Mr.  McNab  wriggled  on  his  chair  and  cleared 
his  throat.  "I — I  can  gang  to  Gourock  ma  lane, 
Mary." 

"Havers,  man!" 


92  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"But  I  can  so !    Ye  talk  as  if  I  was  a  wean." 

"Noo,  John,  ye  ken  fine  ye  canna  gang  to 
Gourock  yer  lane — " 

"An'  what  for  no?" 

"Because  I  wudna  let  ye  gang  yer  lane!" 

"See  here,  Mary,"  he  cried,  irritably,  "I'm  fair 
seeck  o'  yer  hingin'  on  to  ma  coat  tails !  I  canna 
move  a  fit  but  ye're  hingin'  there!" 

She  gazed  at  him  in  gentle  amazement.  "John, 
hoo  mony  years  is  it  since  ye  gaed  to  Gourock 
yer  lane?" 

"That's  naething  to  dae  wi'  it!  I — I  dinna 
mean  to  hurt  yer  feelin's,  but — but — " 

"I  wud  gang  wi'  ye  the  day  if  I  could,"  she 
interrupted,  without  the  slightest  resentment. 
"Listen,  John!  I'll  promise  to  gang  wi'  next 
Seturday.  Will  that  no  content  ye?" 

"I'll  maybe  no'  want  to  gang  next  Seturday." 

"Aw,  ye're  a  contrairy  auld  man!"  she  re- 
joined, smiling.  "Awa*  oot  to  the  garden  an'  sit 
in  the  sun  this  fine  mornin'.  We'll  speak  aboot 
it  at  dinner-time." 

But  at  dinner-time  he  made  no  reference  to 
the  matter,  and  she  was  not  sorry  to  think  that 
he  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  The  meal  being 
over,  he  returned  to  the  garden,  to  sit  once  more 
in  the  sun — so,  at  least,  she  presumed. 

About  three   o'clock   Mr.   Redhorn,   setting 


A  COSTLY  NAP  93 

forth  for  an  after-dinner  walk,  encountered  Mrs. 
McNab,  worried  and  excited. 

"I  was  comin'  to  see  ye,"  she  said.  "Ha'e  ye 
seen  onything  o'  John?" 

"No'  the  day,  Mistress  McNab.  Was  he  comin' 
to  see  me?" 

"He's  awa'  to  Gourock!" 

"Gourock !"  exclaimed  the  painter  with  a  sud- 
den sense  of  dismay. 

"Ay — an'  him  in  his  auld  coat — no'  even  a 
clean  collar  to  his  neck!  But  I  ken  where  to 
find  him  if  I  gang  on  the  next  boat — an'  if  nae- 
thing  has  happened  to  him." 

"Ye  ken  where  to  find  him !  Did  he  tell  ye  he 
was  gaun  to — Gourock?" 

"He  was  speakin'  aboot  it  this  mornin'.  But  I 
tell't  him  I  couldna  gang  wi'  him,  an'  I  promised 
to  gang  next  Seturday — an'  I  thought  that  he 
would  ha'e  contented  him.  I  never  thought  he 
wud  treat  me  like  this,  efter  three-an'-fifty  year 
— efter  the  way  I've  ta'en  care  o'  him.  But  a 
man's  a  man  for  a'  that,  as  he  used  to  sing  it. 
I  suppose  it  means  that  a  man  can  never  be 
onything  better  nor  a  man,  if  he  lives  for  a  hun- 
derd  years.  But  I  thought  John  wud — " 

"Dinna  tak'  it  to  heart  like  that,"  the  painter 
softly  interrupted.  "I'm  sure  John  didna  mean 
to  hurt  yer  feelin's.  But  ye — ye  said  ye  kent 
where  to  find  him?" 


94  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"He  said  he  wanted  to  see  a  man,  Peter  Mc- 
Tavish." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Aweel,  if  ye  ha'e  nae  objections, 
I'll  come  in  the  boat  wi'  ye." 

"I'll  be  gled  o'  yer  comp'ny,  Maister  Ridhorn. 
Ye've  aye  been  a  guid  frien'  to  John." 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head,  wishing  he  had 
said  less — or,  better,  nothing  whatever — about 
picture  palaces  to  the  old  man.  He  looked  at  his 
watch.  "We  ha'e  twinty-five  meenutes  till  the 
boat  comes,"  he  said,  "so  we'll  jist  step  up  to 
ma  hoose  an'  ha'e  a  dish  o'  tea.  I  left  a  guid 
fire.  Come  awa',  Mistress  McNab.  Keep  up  yer 
heart.  We'll  find  yer  guid  man  safe  an'  soun', 
or  ma  name's  no'  Joseph  Ridhorn.  An'  I  wud 
humbly  implore  ye  no'  to  be  severe  wi'  him.  To 

err  is  human,  etceetera." 

***** 

An  hour  later  they  stood  on  Gourock  pier.  The 
painter  was  nervous. 

"I  ha'e  a  suggestion  to  offer,"  he  said.  "Tell 
me  where  to  find  John,  an'  I'll  fetch  him  to  ye 
in  the  waitin'  room  here.  It — it  micht  gi'e  him 
a  scare  if  ye  was  drappin'  on  him  like  a  bolt 
f  rae  the  blue,  as  it  were." 

"Ye're  rael  thoughtful  for  John,"  she  returned, 
a  trifle  drily,  perhaps.  "But  I  canna  quarrel  wi' 
yer  plan,  for  I  wudna  like  to  affront  him  afore 
Peter  McTavish.  She  mentioned  the  address, 


A  COSTLY  NAP  95 

adding,  "As  quick's  ye  can,  please,  for  I'm 
anxious." 

"Ye'll  no'  be  severe  on  him?" 

"Was  I  ever  severe  on  him?" 

"I  ask  yer  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  and 
straightway  departed. 

Fortunately  the  picture  palace  was  but  a  little 
way  from  the  pier. 

At  the  pay-box  Mr.  Redhorn  made  inquiry. 
"Ha'e  ye  seen  a  vera  auld  man — an  extra  auld 
man — an  antiquarian,  in  fac' — enter  these  prem- 
ises recently?" 

The  box-keeper  admitted  that  an  aged  person 
had  paid  for  admission  about  two  hours  ago. 

"I  want  to  see  him,"  said  the  painter. 

"Sixpence." 

"Can  I  no'  gang  in  wi'oot  payin?" 

"No,  but  you  can  pay  without  going  in." 

"I  perceive,  young  man,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn, 
"that  ye're  better  at  quotin'  nor  thinkin'.  Weel, 
here's  yer  saxpence.  Kindly  pull  the  string, 
or  press  the  button,  or  whatever  ye  dae  for  a 
livin'." 

Presently  he  found  himself  inside,  and  in  dark- 
ness. An  attendant  informed  him  that  the  lights 
would  go  up  in  about  five  minutes.  In  that 
period  of  time  Mr.  Redhorn  witnessed  the  at- 
tempted murder  of  a  dazzlingly  fair  damsel  by 
an  exceedingly  swarthy  gentleman,  the  rescue  of 
the  former  and  confounding  of  the  latter  by  a 


noble-looking  youth  in  an  immaculate  sailor  suit, 
the  suicide  by  slow  poison  of  the  swarthy  one, 
and  the  bethrothal  of  the  lovers. 

On  the  theatre  being  illuminated  he  espied  the 
object  of  his  search  not  far  away.  Mr.  McNab 
was  rubbing  his  eyes.  When  the  painter  spoke 
to  him  he  looked  up  in  dazed  fashion. 

"Guidsakes!  is  it  you,  Joseph?  What  are  ye 
daein'  here?" 

"Aw,  I  jist  drapped  in,  thinkin'  I  micht  find 
ye  en  joy  in'  yersel'.  But  we'll  get  ootside  noo — 
er,  John?" 

"But  I  ha'ena  seen  onything  yet,"  the  old  man 
protested. 

"Ye've  been  here  for  twa  hours.  Come ;  we'll 
get  ootside/' 

Mr.  McNab  rose  slowly.  He  was  beginning 
to  understand  and  to  suspect.  "Is — is  She  here, 
Joseph?"  he  whispered. 

"No'  exac'ly  here,  John.  .  .  .  She's  at  the 
pier,  waitin'  for  us.  We'll  be  in  nice  time  to 
drink  a  gless  o'  ginger  wine  afore  we  catch  the 
boat  for  Fairport." 

"Did  ye  betray  me,  Joseph?" 

"Na,  na.  When  I  left  her  at  the  pier  I  was 
to  look  for  ye  at  McTavish's.  She  was  sure  ye 
had  gaed  there." 

"Oh,  dear  me !"  groaned  Mr.  McNab,  and  fell 
silent. 

When  they  were  in  the  street,  the  painter  said, 


A  COSTLY  NAP  97 

softly:  "I  think  ye  best  tell  her  aboot  every- 
thing, John." 

"I've  naething  to  tell  her  aboot.  I  never  seen 
onything." 

"I  dinna  understand  ye,  John.  What  dae  ye 
mean  ?" 

"What  I  say.  Ye  tell  me  I  was  in  the  place 
•for  twa  hours,  an'  I  believe  ye.  Still,  I  never 
seen  onything  excep'  a  pictur'  o'  a  lot  o'  sea- 
gulls— an'  I  can  see  plenty  o'  seagulls  ony  day 
at  Fairport — an'  the  place  was  warm  an'  dark, 
an'  I  was  kin  o'  wearit,  an'  I  thought  I  wud  shut 
ma  e'en  for  twa  meenutes,  an' — Weel,  the  next 
thing  I  seen  was  yersel'.  .  .  .  Oh,  man,  if  I 
was  a  wee  thing  younger,  I  wud  gang  up  a  close 
an'  kick  masel'.  Saxpence  for  a  bit  nap!  The 
dearest  nap  I  ever  had!  Joseph,  ha'e  ye  ony 
extra  bad  language  ?" 

"Ma  sympathy  is  nane  the  weaker  for  bein' 
dumb,  John,"  replied  the  painter.  "It  was  indeed, 
as  ye  observe,  a  costly  nap.  In  some  o'  the  new 
London  hotels — see  advertizements — ye  wud 
likely  ha'e  got  breakfast  thrown  in,  an'  maybe 
a  bath  into  the  bargain.  .  .  .  But  what  are  we 
to  say  to  the  guidwife,  John?" 

"Oh,  she'll  jist  ha'e  to  get  the  truth — what 
there  is  o'  it.  Maybe  the  nap  was  a  judgment 
on  me.  I'm  sorry  I  vexed  her.  .  .  .  But — as 
I've  said  afore — a  man  maun  ha'e  his  fling." 


VI 

A  BID  FOR  FAME 

HEY!  Hold  on!"  cried  the  apprentice 
so  sharply  that  Mr.  Redhorn  dropped 
his  brush  and  all  but  fell  from  the 
ladder. 

Recovering  his  balance,  the  painter,  with  nat- 
ural enough  irritation,  but  with  unwonted  as- 
perity, exclaimed :  "What  the  mischief  did  ye 
yell  like  that  for,  laddie?  I  micht  ha'e  broke 
ma  neck." 

"I  couldna  help  yellin'  when  I  seen  ye  was 
for  puttin'  the  wrang  colour  on  the  cornice." 

"The  wrang  colour!"  Mr.  Redhorn  looked 
down  at  the  pot  in  his  left  hand,  the  pot  with 
which  he  had  mounted  the  ladder  a  minute  pre- 
viously. "Criftens !"  he  muttered,  and  proceeded 
to  descend  cautiously  to  the  floor. 

Arrived  there,  he  set  down  the  paint-pot  and 
solemnly  presented  his  apprentice  with  his  hand. 

"Wullie/'  he  said  to  the  astonished  youth,  "if 
ye  risked  ma  neck,  ye  saved  ma  reputation. 
What  wud  Mistress  Carvey  ha'e  said  if  I  had 
98 


A  BID  FOR  FAME  99 

i 

put  sky-blue  where  she  ordered  sawmon-pink? 
Thenk  ye,  laddie — thenk  ye !" 

"Aw,  it  was  naething,"  muttered  Willie.  "I 
jist  didna  want  to  see  ye  mak'  a  cod  o'  yersel'. 
A'  the  same,  I  dinna  think  ye  could  break  yer 
neck  fallin'  that  wee  height." 

"The  human  neck,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn  seri- 
ously, "is  easier  broke  nor  ye  seem  to  think, 
ma  lad,  an'  I  never  was  skilled  at  the  acrobatics. 
I  never  yet  fell  wi'oot  hurtin'  masel'  an'  beholdin' 
a  superabundance  o'  stars.  At  the  same  time, 
as  previously  observed,  I'm  grateful  to  ye  for 
stayin'  ma  hand  afore  it  could  mak'  a  false 
step." 

During  these  remarks  Willie  had  lifted  a  pot, 
and  now  he  offered  it  to  his  employer.  "Here's 
the  sawmon-pink,  Maister  Ridhorn,  an'  I'll  whis- 
per the  next  time  instead  o'  yellin'." 

But  Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head,  and  mo- 
tioned the  pot  away,  saying: 

"Na,  Wullie,  I'll  leave  the  cornice  till  the 
morn's  mornin',  and  meantime  I'll  help  ye  wi' 
the  skirtin'-board."  He  consulted  his  watch. 
"Five  o'clock.  Ay!  we'll  manage  to  feenish  the 
skirtin'-board  afore  we  knock  off." 

"Are  ye — are  ye  feared  to  gang  up  the  ladder 
again  ?"  the  boy  inquired. 

"I  am  that,"  the  painter  replied  with  a  sigh. 
"But  it's  ma  reputation  mair  nor  ma  neck  that 


ioo  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

I'm  feared  for.  The  truth  is,  I'm  no'  in  the 
humour  for  performin'  delicate  operations."  He 
hesitated  for  a  moment.  "Maybe  ye've  noticed 
that  something  has  been  preyin'  on  ma  mind  the 
day,  eh?" 

"Is  it  yer  dyspeepsia  again?" 

"I  said  ma  mind,  laddie.  Maybe  I  should 
ha'e  said  ma  intellec'." 

"Ye've  got  me  there,"  said  Willie. 

"Ye  ha'ena  noticed  onything?" 

Willie  shook  his  head.  "Has  Danks,  the  fish- 
monger, been  teasin'  ye  again?"  he  inquired,  as 
with  an  after-thought. 

"Na;  it's  no'  Danks  this  time,  though  I  dare- 
say it'll  no'  be  lang  afore  he'll  be  wantin'  his 
revenge." 

"Revenge?" 

"Ay !  For,  ye  see,  I  got  the  better  o'  him  last 
nicht — and  noo  I  wish  I  hadna.  But  this'll  no' 
dae.  -Time's  money  to  Miss  Carvey,  as  weel  as 
to  Joseph  Ridhorn.  Get  to  work  on  the  skirtin'- 
board,  laddie." 

For  three  minutes  they  painted  diligently  and 
in  silence.  Then  Willie's  curiosity  got  the  bet- 
ter of  him. 

"What  did  ye  dae  to  Danks  last  nicht?"  he 
casually  inquired. 

"Pay  attention  to  yer  job,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn, 


A  BID  FOR  FAME  101 

not  very  firmly,  however.     He  was  longing  to 
confide  in  the  only  confidant  he  possessed. 

Willie's  ears  detected  the  weakness  in  the  com- 
mand. "Come  on;  tell  us,  Maister  Ridhorn," 
he  said  softly,  persuasively.  "What  did  ye  dae 
to  Danks?" 

"Naething,  direc'ly ;  but  I  could  see  he  left  the 
meetin'  in  a  huff." 
"What  meetin'  ?" 

"Pay  attention  to  yer  job."  Mr.  Redhorn 
dipped  his  brush,  made  a  few  strokes  with  it, 
gently  scratched  the  tip  of  his  nose  with  the 
point  of  the  handle,  and  continued:  "I  suppose 
ye're  aweer  that  Samuel  M'Tavish,  the  Fairport 
polisman — or  constable,  as  he  prefers  to  be  desig- 
nated— has  got  promotion  to  the  city?" 

"Ay!  he'll  maybe  get  quit  o'  some  o'  his  fat 
there.  He's'liker  a  hippopotamus  nor  a  man — " 
"Whisht,  laddie!  Dinna  speak  evil  o'  the 
departed — or,  at  ony  rate,  the  aboot-to-be-de- 
parted.  For  a  man  that's  had  sae  little  to  dae 
for  ten  year,  Samuel's  no'  a  bad  chap.  Onyway, 
it  has  been  decided  to  compliment  him  wi'  a 
presentation  afore  he  departs,  this  day  week.  A 
commytee  was  formed  some  time  back  to  gather 
funds,  etceetera.  The  presentation  will  consist 
o'  a  purse  o'  twinty  sovereigns  in  gold — " 
"Gor!" 


102  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

" — an'  a  clock,  for  he's  getting  married 
shortly." 

"My!  it's  fine  to  be  a  slop!" 

"That's  an  awfu'  unseemly  word,  Wullie.  A 
polisman's  is  an  honourable  profession,  though 
it  involves  mair  boots  nor  brains.  Still,  I've  nae 
doobt  Samuel'll  need  to  use  his  heid  for  a'  it's 
worth  when  he  gets  to  the  city." 

"But  what  aboot  Banks?  Would  he  no'  put 
onything  in  the  purse?" 

"Oh,  Banks  subscribed  his  share.  Gi'e  the 
man  credit  for  that.  But  the  meetin'  last  nicht 
wasna  entirely  feenancial.  In  fac',  the  chief  busi- 
ness was  to  choose  the  party  that  wud  mak'  the 
presentation,  likewise  a  speech.  That  was  where 
the  trouble  commenced,  Wullie.  They  didna 
choose  Banks." 

"Wha  did  they  choose?" 

"Me,"  said  the  painter  sadly.  "On'  noo  I 
wish  it  had  been  the  other  way.  But  I  was  kin' 
o'  elevated  last  nicht." 

"Eh?"  Willie  regarded  his  employer  with  in- 
creased interest. 

"I'm  sayin'  I  was  kin'  o'  elevated.  Ye  see,  the 
meetin'  was  in  ma  hoose,  and  I  felt  it  ma  duty 
to  stan*  the  comp'ny  a  bottle  o'  ginger  wine;  an* 
what  wi'  the  fumes  o'  the  wine,  as  the  poets 
say,  an'  the  popular  acclamations,  I  lost  ma  heid 


A  BID  FOR  FAME  103 

for  the  time  bein',  and  consented  to  mak'  the 
presentation  on  Thursday,  the  third  prox." 

"When?" 

"This  day  week.    An'  noo  I'm  sorry." 

"But  ye  can  draw  back  yet,  and  let  Danks  get 
the  job." 

"A  Ridhorn  never  draws  back,"  said  the 
painter,  adding  under  his  breath,  "espaycially 
when  there's  a  Danks  in  the  field." 

"Is  the  polisman  to  get  'his  purse  an'  clock 
in  a  field?"  inquired  Willie. 

"Tits,  laddie,  I  was  speakin'  metaphorically. 
The  ceremony'll  tak'  place  in  the  public  hall,  an' 
a'  Fairport'll  be  there.  An',  as  sure  as  death, 
I'll  mak'  a  cod  o'  masel',  and  be  the  laughin'- 
stock  o'  Fairport,  Danks  included.  Aweel,  let 
it  be  a  lesson  to  ye.  See  that  ye  never  let  yer 
vanity  get  the  better  o'  yer  sober  judgment. 
Turn  a  deaf  ear  to  popular  applause,  an' 
avoid — " 

"I  wudna  drink  ginger  wine  if  I  was  payed 
for  V  said  Willie.  "But  I'm  sure,"  he  added 
kindly,  "ye  can  mak'  as  guid  a  speech  as  ony 
man  in  Fairport,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

"On  paper,  Wullie,  on  paper — or,  at  ony  rate, 
on  the  taiblets  o'  ma  imagination,"  said  Mr.  Red- 
horn  modestly.  "That  was  another  metaphor, 
ye  wud  observe.  Oh,  I  wouldna  shrink  if  it  was 
merely  a  case  o'  composeetion — in  fac',  I  think 


104  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

I  rway  say  wi'oot  ostentation" — he  smacked  his 
lips  over  the  word — "that,  barrin'  the  meenister, 
I  would  beat  ony  man  in  Fairport  an'  the 
viceenity  at  the  game." 

"My!  ye're  a  demon  for  fancy  words!" 

Mr.  Redhorn  let  the  compliment  pass.  "But," 
he  went  on  sadly,  "when  it  comes  to  gi'ein'  an 
oral  demonstration  o'  ma  oratorical  an'  rhetor- 
orical  abeelities — " 

"Eh?" 

"When  it  comes  to  openin'  ma  mooth  for  to 
emit  the  fruits  o'  ma  lucubrations — " 

Unfortunately  at  this  point  Willie  permitted 
himself  to  snigger,  and  although  he  blew  his  nose 
almost  simultaneously,  Mr.  Redhorn's  suspicion 
was  stirred. 

"Pay  attention  to  yer  job,"  said  the  painter, 
"an'  we'll  work  till  ten  meenutes  past  the  hour 
the  nicht" 

"But  I've  got  a  f ootba'  match  the  nicht !" 

"In  that  case  we'll  start  ten  meenutes  earlier 
the  morn's  mornin'.  Noo  proceed.  Keep  yer 
brush  busy,  an'  gi'e  yer  tongue  a  rest." 

Which  was  rather  unjust  of  Mr.  Redhorn, 
considering  that  he  had  been  doing  the  most  of 
the  talking.  He  sought  to  make  up  for  his  sharp- 
ness later  by  inviting  the  boy  to  tea,  and  was 
honestly  disappointed  when  Willie,  who  bore  no 
ill-will,  reminded  him  of  the  football  match. 


A  BID  FOR  FAME  105 

"I — I  was  thinkin'  ye  micht  care  to  gi'e  me  a 
hand  wi'  the  speech,"  he  said  diffidently,  as  they 
were  about  to  part. 

"Oh,  weel,  I'll  see  if  I've  time,"  said  Willie 
carelessly. 

In  spite  of  his  brave  words,  Mr.  Redhorn  dis- 
covered that  even  mere  "composeetion"  was  not 
lightly  to  be  achieved.  At  eight-thirty  Willie 
found  him  groaning  over  a  table  littered  with 
scraps  of  paper  and  cigarette  ash. 

"Ha'e  ye  no'  had  yer  tea  yet?"  the  apprentice 
inquired,  after  a  glance  round  the  untidy  room. 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head. 

"Hoo  mony  ceegarettes  ha'e  ye  smoked?" 

"Dear  knows,"  the  painter  wearily  replied.  "I 
thought  they  would  maybe  stimulate  ma  brain — " 

"If  ye  wud  smoke  guid  ceegarettes  instead  o' 
that  rotten  sort — " 

"I've  tell't  ye  afore,  I  canna  afford  to  be  a 
connisewer."  Mr.  Redhorn  passed  his  hand  over 
his  scalp. 

"Is  yer  heid  hurtin'  ye?" 

"No'  jist  exactly  hurtin'  me,  but  I'm  begginin' 
to  understan'  why  so  mony  o'  the  world's  greatest 
thinkers  ha'e  ended  their  days  in  the  madhoose." 
He  groaned,  dipped  his  pen,  and  brought  from 
the  depths  of  the  ink-pot  a  blob  of  sediment. 
"That,"  he  said,  regarding  it  bitterly,  "is  what 


io6  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

happens  every  time  I'm  seized  wi'  an  aspira- 
tion." 

Willie,  having  passed  to  the  mentelpiece, 
missed  the  significance  of  the  last  remark.  He 
now  returned  carrying  a  large  bottle  of  medicinal 
appearance. 

"Ye  better  drink  a  dose  o'  the  Elixir,  Maister 
Ridhorn." 

"Tits,  laddie,  I've  got  nae  dyspeepsia  the  noo. 
Ma  trouble  is  mental — intellectual." 

"An'  that  brings  on  the  dyspeepsia  later — ye've 
tell't  me  often." 

"True!  An'  onyway,  as  wiser  men  nor  me 
ha'e  remarked,  prevention  is  better  nor  cure. 
Gi'e  me  the  bottle."  Uncorking  it,  he  lowered 
a  goodly  pull,  much  to  the  gratification  of  Willie, 
who  never  tired  of  seeing  his  employer  take 
physic.  "Aw,  laddie,  that's  a  terrible  taste.  Re- 
move it!  I've  been  absorbin'  that  Elixir  for 
nine  years,  but  if  I  was  livin'  to  be  a  hundred, 
I  doobt  I  wudna  get  to  like  it." 

"But  it's  guid  for  ye,"  said  Willie,  returning 
the  bottle  to  the  mentelshelf.  "I  think  I'll  put 
the  kettle  on,  and  ye'll  get  a  cup  o'  tea,  eh?" 

"Ye're  a  thoughtful  laddie,"  the  painter  re- 
turned gratefully,  cleaning  his  pen,  and  prepar- 
ing to  resume  his  task. 

Presently,  Willie,  having  mended  the  fire, 
which  had  burned  low,  rejoined  him. 


A  BID  FOR  FAME  107 

"Hoo  are  ye  gettin'  on,  Maister  Rid'horn?" 

Mr.  Redhorn  sighed.  "Ma  brain  feels  burstin' 
wi'  ideas,  but  as  sure  as  I  start  to  write  them 
doon — 'feugh !  they're  awa' !" 

"Ha'e  ye  nae  notion  o'  what  ye  want  to  say?" 

"Oh,  I  ken  fine  what  I  want  to  say,"  said  the 
painter  a  trifle  sharply.  "The  deeficulty  is  to 
command  ma  ideas.  I  think  the  best  way'll  be 
to  begin  wi'  a  synopsis — " 

"What's  that?" 

"French.  Ye'll  see  what  it  means  immedi- 
ately/' 

Mr.  Redhorn  laid  a  fresh  scrap  of  paper 
before  him,  and  cautiously  dipped  his  pen.  "For 
instance,  we'll  ha'e  to  speak  o'  the  polisman's 
connection  wi'  Fairport,  and  the  great  respec' 
and  esteem  he  enjoyed — " 

"No'  f  rae  me !" 

"Whisht,  laddie!  When  a  prominent  man  is 
leavin'  the  community  for  ony  place  excep'  the 
jail,  it's  usual  to  mention  'respec'  and  esteem.' 
Then,"  the  painter  continued,  "we  wud  need  to 
refer  to  the  absence  o'  serious  crime  durin'  his 
residence  here.  I  canna  deny  that  ma  remarks 
wud  be  mair  pungent  if  he  had  nabbed  a  burglar, 
or  detected  a  homicide,  or  performed  a  gallant 
deed  o'  some  description — " 

"He  once  got  a  motorist  fined — an'  d'ye  mind 


io8  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

when  he  was  for  arrestin'  a  photographer 
for—" 

"Oh,  we'll  no'  refer  to  these  incidents.  We'll 
jist  say  he  done  his  duty,  an'  then  we'll  con- 
gratulate him  on  his  promotion  to  a  wider  sphere, 
which  is  tempered  wi'  unspeakable  grief  to  think 
that  his  feet  will  never  (D.V.)  tread  these  hos- 
pitable shores  again.  That's  the  synopsis."  Mr. 
Redhorn  concluded  with  a  wave  of  his  pen  and 
a  long  breath. 

"My !  ye're  a  demon  at  speeches !"  cried  Willie, 
in  honest  admiration. 

"Ma  mither  aye  wanted  me  to  be  a  meenister," 
said  the  gratified  painter;  "but  I  couldna  think 
to  soar  that  high.  Still,  I'm  gled  ye  approve  o' 
the  synopsis,  Wullie,  which,  ye  must  understan', 
is  merely  the  entrails  o'  the  observations  at 
present  seethin'  in  ma  brain.  If  I  can  jist  man- 
age to  get  a  tenth  part  o'  ma  thoughts  on  to 
paper,  an'  a  tenth  part  o'  the  result  oot  o'  ma 
mooth,  I  promise  ye  I'll  gi'e  Fairport  something 
to  talk  aboot  for  a  month — or  at  least  a  week.  I 
confess,  laddie,  yer  kind  words  ha'e  filled  me 
wi'  a  new  enthusiasm,  an'  I'll  proceed  wi'  ma 
task  in  hope.  Noo  I  hear  the  kettle  singin',  so 
we'll  get  oot  the  dishes  preparatory  to  enjoyin' 
a  dish  o'  tea." 

"Strikes  me,"  said  Willie,  "ye're  feelin'  the 
better  of  the  Elixir." 


A  BID  FOR  FAME  109 

"I'll  no'  deny  it,"  returned  Mr.  Redhorn,  ris- 
ing briskly;  "nor  will  I  deny  that  I  feel  at  this 
blessed  meenute  like  a  young  lion — or  an  ostrich 
— I  mean  to  say,  an  eagle — which  has  renewed 
its  youth." 

When  Willie  had  recovered  from  a  severe  fit 
of  coughing,  he  said: 

"Maister  Ridhorn — "  and  halted. 

"What  is  it,  laddie?" 

"What  d'ye  think  I  was  hearin'  the  nicht?  I 
was  for  tellin'  ye  suner,  but  I  forgot." 

From  the  cupboard  where  he  kept  his  pro- 
visions, Mr.  Redhorn  had  taken  a  plate  of  butter. 
"What  did  ye  hear?"  he  asked  fearfully,  and 
laid  the  plate  of  butter  on  the  dresser. 

"There's  a  reporter  frae  the  Greenhill  Herald 
comin'  to  the  polisman's  meetin'  next  week." 

"A  reporter!    Great  guidness!" 

"He's  some  relation  o'  the  polisman's.  I  sup- 
pose he'll  be  writin'  doon  yer  speech  for  the 
paper,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

For  several  seconds  Mr.  Redhorn  remained 
absolutely  motionless.  Then  he  strode  noise- 
lessly to  the  door  and  turned  the  key.  Then 
he  walked  over  to  the  hearth,  and  stood  there 
for  a  moment  or  two,  gently  stroking  his  droop- 
ing moustache.  Then  he  stepped  firmly  across 
to  the  dresser,  half-turned,  and  faced  his  staring 
apprentice. 


no  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"If  this,"  he  said,  with  emotion,  raising  his 
clenched  fist,  "if  this  isna  fame,  Wullie,  it — it's 
dashed  near  it!"  The  clenched  fist  fell  with  a 
muffled  thump. 

"Oh,  the  butter!"  yelled  Willie. 

The  prospect  of  beholding  his  speech  in  print 
was  as  a  spur  to  Mr.  Redhorn's  flagging  ambition 
and  faltering  self-confidence.  Yet  a  spur  means 
pain  no  less  than  encouragement,  and  the  paint- 
er's sufferings  during  the  next  six  days — and 
nights — shall  not  be  described  in  these  pages. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  on  the  sixth  evening 
that  Mr.  Redhorn  made  the  announcement  to 
Willie,  who  had  several  times  fallen  asleep  in 
the  easy-chair,  of  the  completion  of  the  great 
work. 

"Gor!"  said  Willie,  sitting  up. 

"Noo,  in  the  first  place,"  said  the  author,  "is 
yer  mither  aware  that  ye' re  here  the  nicht?" 

"Ay." 

"Secondly,  will  she  be  alarmed  if  ye're  no' 
hame  afore  nine-thirty?" 

"No'  her !"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  "seein5  I've  got  to 
gang  to  Glesca  the  morn,  to  settle  quarterly  ac- 
counts, etceetera,  I  think  I  best  read  ye  the  speech 
noo.  Accordin'  to  ma  calculations,  it'll  tak'  forty 
meenutes  to  deliver,  an' — " 


A  BID  FOR  FAME  in 

"Holy  Moses!"  the  boy  exclaimed  involun- 
tarily. 

Mr.  Redhorn  permitted  Himself  to  smile.  "Yer 
remark,"  he  said,  "suggests  to  me,  Wullie,  that 
I've  composed  a  sermon ;  and  I  may  say  I'm  no' 
wantin'  in  hope  that  ma  speech  contains  sundry 
moral  reflections.  At  the  same  time,  it  is 
aboundin',  mair  or  less,  in  humour  and  innocent 
pleasantries.  Moreover,  it  is  rich  in  poetry.  The 
poetry,  hooever,  is  unoriginal." 

"Is  it?" 

"But,  on  the  whole,  appropriate.  Aweel,  I'll 
begin — an'  if  there's  onythirg  ye  dinna  under- 
stan',  kindly  preserve  inquiries  till  I  come  to 
'finis/" 

"Could  I  get  a  drink  o'  water  first?" 

"Mercy,  laddie,  I  clean  forgot  to  inform  ye- 
o'  the  presence  in  thonder  press  o'  a  bottle  o' 
leemonade,  specially  purchased  for  yer  ain  con- 
sumption. Help  yersel',  quick;  but  try  no'  to 
let  the  gas  get  the  better  o'  ye  durin'  ma  recital. 
I  doobt  I'll  ha'e  trouble  enough  try  in'  to  read  ma 
ain  deplorable  penmanship,  wi'oot  ony  exterior 
interruptions." 

A  minute  later,  tumbler  in  hand,  Willie  settled 
himself  to  listen.  He  had,  during  the  past  few 
days,  hearkened  to  endless  quotations  from  his 
employer's  "notes,"  so  that  he  did  not  expect 
to  be  vastly  entertained.  Nevertheless — so  long, 


H2  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

at  least,  as  his  refreshment  lasted — he  gave  his 
best  attention  to  the  somewhat  stumbling  "re- 
cital." And  he  sometimes  managed  to  laugh  or 
look  grave  at  the  right  moment.  Mr.  Redhorn 
never  raised  his  eyes  from  the  pages  except  to 
rub  them,  while  he  mildly  cursed  his  own  bad 
writing. 

At  a  quarter  to  ten  the  bulky  manuscript  fell 
from  the  fingers  of  the  exhausted  maker 
thereof. 

"Splendid!"  cried  Willie.  "Splendid!"  He 
really  could  not  think  of  anything  else  to  say. 
He  had  long  since  decided  not  to  ask  any  ques- 
tions. 

"I  dinna  think  onybody'll  deny,"  said  Mr. 
Redhorn,  wiping  his  streaming  forehead,  "that 
it's  a  speech." 

"I'll  knock  the  face  off  onybody  that  does," 
the  apprentice  declared. 

"Ye're  loyal,  laddie,  ye're  loyal !  But  between 
you  and  me,  I'm  thinkin  it's  no  hauf  bad — eh?" 

"It's  splendid!"  said  Willie,  checking  a  yawn. 

"I  jist  wish  I  hadna  to  gang  to  Glesca  the 
morn.  I  wud  like  fine  if  there  had  been  time  to 
mak'  a  fresh  copy  o'  the  speech.  I'm  feared  I'll 
boggle  at  some  o'  the  words  that  I've  altered, 
an'  loss  ma  heid."  Mr.  Redhorn  began  to  look 
gloomy. 

Willie  had  been  given  a  holiday  on  the  morrow, 


A  BID  FOR  FAME  113 

and  had  planned  to  go  fishing.  But  something 
impelled  him  to  say : 

"If  ye  like,  I'll  copy  it  for  ye,  an'  ha'e  it 
ready  for  ye  when  ye  come  hame  at  five 
o'clock." 

"What!  Ye  wud  dae  that  for  me,  Wullie? 
'Deed,  it  wud  mak'  a'  the  difference  in  the  world 
to  me— an'  ye're  a  grand  writer,  I  ken." 

"Ay,  I'll  dae  it,"  said  the  boy,  almost  regret- 
ting 'his  offer. 

"Weel,"  the  painter  said,  "it'll  be  a  benefit 
that'll  never  be  forgot.  I'll  bring  ye  the  manu- 
script an'  a  supply  o'  paper  afore  I  gang  for 
the  early  boat,  so  as  ye'll  no'  miss  yer  long  lie.  I 
dinna  ken  what  to  say  to  ye,  laddie,  but  I'm 
gratefu'.  An'  noo  I'm  feared  yer  mither'll  be 
anxious." 

When,  on  the  following  evening,  Mr.  Redhorn 
stepped  across  the  gangway,  he  was  not  sur- 
prised to  see  a  strange  policeman  on  the  pier, 
for  he  was  aware  that  the  man  had  been  in  Fair- 
port  for  several  days,  learning  his  way  about 
under  the  guidance  of  Samuel  M'Tavish.  But 
he  was  surprised — nay,  stricken  with  astonish- 
ment— when  the  piermaster,  receiving  his  toll, 
remarked : 

"We  missed  ye  badly  the  day,  Ridhorn." 
"Eh?"  exclaimed  the  painter,  staring.    Then 


ii4  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

assuming  that  he  was  being  chaffed,  he  gave  a 
good-humoured  laugh.  "Weel,  I  hope  the  rest 
o'  Fairport  has  survived  ma  absence  as  weel  as 
you  appear  to  ha'e  done,  Tammas." 

"But  it  was  a  pity  ye  left  wi'  the  early  boat," 
the  other  said  seriously;  "for  the  news  arrived 
at  eight  o'clock — as  sune  as  the  telegraph  wire 
was  open." 

"Wh-what  news?" 

"I  suppose  I  best  tell  ye  the  truth,"  the  pier- 
master  replied  reluctantly,  for  he  was  a  sym- 
pathetic soul.  "Samuel  M'Tavish  got  a  wire 
frae  heidquarters  commandin'  him  to  report  his- 
sel'  at  the  Glesca  office  first  thing  the  morn's 
mornin'.  So  he  gaed  off  wi'  the  efternune  boat. 
A  great  pity  ye  wasna  here." 

Mr.  Redhorn  cleared  his  throat.  "Dae  ye 
mean  to  say  the  polisman  has  left  wi'oot  receivin' 
his  presentation?"  he  stammered. 

"Oh,  he  got   his   presentation   richt  enough. 
Danks  seen  to  that.    Danks  made  the  commytee 
call  a  public  meetin'  for  twa  o'clock.     The  folk 
turned  oot  weel;  in  fac',  the  hall  was  packed. 
Danks  put  hissel'  in  the  chair,  an'  made  the 
presentation,  an'  a  speech  forbye." 
"Danks  made  a  speech?" 
"Aw!  it  wasna  worth  hearin',  but  I  thought 
it  was  best  to  tell  ye,  Ridhorn." 
There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  the 


A  BID  FOR  FAME  115 

painter  appeared  to  swallow  something.  Then 
he  said,  thickly,  but  gently :  "I'm  obleeged  to  ye, 
Tammas.  Guid  nicht!" 

He  made  for  his  bachelor  abode,  avoiding  sev- 
eral neighbours  who  would  'have  spoken  with 
him.  He  could  not,  however,  avoid  passing  the 
fish-shop,  in  the  doorway  of  which  Danks,  liter- 
ally swollen  with  importance,  was  standing  with 
some  of  his  cronies. 

With  a  great  effort,  the  painter  raised  his 
head  and  murmured  "Fine  nicht!"  though  the 
rain  was  drizzling  in  melancholy  fashion. 

One  of  the  cronies  answered  affably  enough, 
but  the  others  sniggered,  and  the  fishmonger 
broke  out  with  a  sarcastic  cackle,  which  followed 
Mr.  Redhorn  to  his  door. 

He  had  left  the  key  with  his  apprentice,  whom 
he  expected  to  find  awaiting  him  at  the  fireside. 
But  the  door  was  locked,  and  no  answer  came  to 
his  knocking,  until  a  neighbour  appeared  with 
the  key  and  the  explanation  that  the  boy  had  left 
it  in  her  charge  some  hours  previously. 

Mr.  Redhorn  entered,  to  find  the  fire  out  and 
neither  message  nor  manuscript  from  his  appren- 
tice. He  threw  himself  into  the  shabby  easy- 
chair. 

"Even  Wullie'll  be  laughin'  at  me,"  he  sighed 
bitterly. 

Threatenings  of  a  cold  in  the  head  caused  him 


ii6  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

to  relight  the  fire  and  make  a  cup  of  tea.  There- 
after he  settled  down  to  brood  miserably,  wrath- 
fully,  on  the  perfidy  of  the  Glasgow  polke  au- 
thorities, the  triumph  of  Banks,  the  amusement 
of  his  neighbours,  his  own  fatal  conceit  that  had 
led  to  his  dignity's  downfall,  and,  last  but  not 
least,  the  foolish  figure  he  must  surely  cut  in 
the  eyes  of  his  apprentice. 

Nine  o'clock  arrived,  and  the  poor  struggling 
hope  that,  in  spite  of  all,  Willie  might  turn  up 
with  a  word  of  sympathy,  died  out.  And  as  he 
once  more  called  himself  an  old  fool,  a  knock 
fell  on  the  door,  and  a  voice  called  cheerfully : 

"It's  me— Wullie!" 

A  moment  later,  he  was  admitted — dripping, 
mud-bespattered. 

"Laddie,  laddie,  ye're  drookit!  Gang  ower 
to  the  fire.  I'll  ha'e  the  kettle  bilin'  in  nae  time, 
an'  ye'll  drink  a  gless  o'  ginger-wine — hot — • 
whether  ye  like  it  or  no'.  Man,  I'm  pleased  to 
see  ye!"  Yet  even  as  he  uttered  the  last  sen- 
tence Mr.  Redhorn's  heart  flopped  once  more 
to  the  depths.  "I  suppose  ye  gaed  to  the  fishin' 
efter  a',"  he  said,  trying  not  to  speak  coldly. 
"Weel,  I  suppose  it  was  the  best  thing  ye  could 
ha'e  done  in  the  circumstances." 

"Fishin' !"  cried  Willie,  watching  the  steam  ris- 
ing from  his  garments.     "I  was  busy  wi'  yer 


A  BID  FOR  FAME  117 

speech  till  twa  o'clock.  An  awfu'  lot  o'  writin' ! 
I  had  to  get  ma  mither  to  dae  a  share." 

"But — but,  oh,  laddie,  did  ye  no'  ken  that  the 
polisman  got  a  wire  an' — " 

"Fine!  But  I  thought  it  wud  be  a  peety  to 
waste  the  speech — " 

"But  it  was  wasted  afore  ye  started  to  copy — " 

Willie  laughed  and  shook  his  head.  "Na;  it's 
no'  wasted.  I  had  it  ready  in  time  for  the 
meeting  but,  of  course,  the  reporter  wasna  there, 
an'  so  I  legged  it  to  Greenhill." 

"Greenhill?" 

"I  thought  I  wud  gang  an'  see  the  man  that 
has  the  weekly  paper  there.  I  was  jist  in  time, 
for  it  comes  oot  the  morn.  He  canna  print  a' 
yer  speech,  he  says,  but  he's  gaun  to  gi'e  ye  a 
column — " 

"A  column!  Laddie,  are  ye  tellin'  me  that  a 
whole  column  o'  ma  speech  is  to  be  printed?" 

"Jist  that.  The  paper  man  said  it  was — 
splendid."  Willie  may  be  forgiven  his  suppres- 
sion of  the  fact  that  the  editor  had  muttered 
something  like  "screamingly  funny"  and  choked 
a  dozen  times  in  the  course  of  his  perusal. 

Mr.  Redhorn  sat  slowly  down,  his  hand  to  his 
head.  "And  ye've  walked  sixteen  mile  in  this 
weather  to  dae  that  for  me!  Oh,  Wullie,  but 
ye're  loyal!" 


ii8  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"It  was  a  peety  to  waste  it.  Ye've  burst  Banks 
this  time,  eh?" 

"Criftens!"  cried  the  painter.  "I  'had  clean 
forgot  aboot  Banks.  He — he'll  be  furious.  I 
hope  ye  explained  to  the  paper  man  that  Banks 
was  in  the  chair." 

"Oh,  the  paper  man's  gaun  to  put  in  the  paper 
that  Banks  said  a  few  words,"  said  Willie  care- 
lessly. "Banks  canna  speak  for  nuts.  I  heard 
him.  It  was  like  a  moose  squeakin'.  Gor!  I 
wud  like  to  see  his  face  when  he  gets  the  paper 
the  morn's  nicht.  The  paper  man's  gaun  to  send 
ye  a  dizzen  copies,  free." 

Just  then  the  kettle  boiled  over,  and  Mr.  Red- 
horn,  curbing  his  excitement,  hastened  to  concoct 
the  hot  drink  for  his  guest. 

"  'Beed,  I  think  I'll  ha'e  a  gless  masel',  he  said 
suddenly;  "for  if  this  isna  fame,  it's  dashed — " 
He  paused.  "It's  kin'  o'  rough  on  Banks,  too," 
he  muttered  thoughtfully.  "Weel,  weel,  as  ye 
grow  aulder,  Wullie,  ye'll  learn  that  every  fly 
has  its  ointment." 


vn 

"THE  WEE  DUG" 

BUSINESS  was  slack,  and  Mr.  Redhorn, 
egged  on  by  his  apprentice,  had  almost 
decided  to  apply  his  professional  energies 
and  talents  to  the  beautifying  of  his  own  abode. 

"I've  been  intendin'  to  dae  it  for  quarter  o'  a 
century,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  one  of  the  boy's 
questions.  "Stric'ly  speakin',  it's  ma  landlord's 
affair,  but  the  man  has  aye  been  that  hard  up 
that  I've  never  had  the  face  to  mention  the 
subjec'  to  him.  It  near  ruined-  him  when  the 
frost  brustit  the  upstairs  pipes,  fifteen  year  back, 
an'  flooded  his  entire  property." 

"But  what  way  did  ye  no'  jist  dae  it  yersel'? 
It's  no'  a  big  job." 

"Procrastination,  Wullie,  procrastination.  An' 
it  wasna  the  pentin'  and  paperin',  that  I  dreaded ; 
it  was  the  necessary  preparations  for  the  same — 
the  clearin'  o'  shelfs,  an'  presses,  an'  cupboards, 
an'  corners.  I  like  thoroughness.  But  when  I 
meditated  on  the  accumulations  o'  years,  an'  the 
dust  o'  ages,  as  the  poet  says,  I — weel,  I  pro- 
crastinated." 

"Ye  funked  it?" 

119 


120  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Put  it  that  way  if  ye  like.  If  ye  want  a 
sma'  example  o'  the  accumulations  afore  men- 
tioned, get  up  an'  open  the  wee  doors  ablow  the 
dresser — bearin'  in  mind  that  this  has  been  ma 
hame  for  near  thirty  year." 

Willie  left  his  seat  by  the  hearth,  and  opened 
the  first  of  the  three  doors. 

"What  dae  ye  behold?"  said  Mr.  Redhorn. 

"Penny  novels — aboot  ten  thoosan'  o'  them. 
What  for  dae  ye  keep  them?" 

"Dear  knows.  At  the  present  time  I'm  askin' 
masel'  what  for  I've  kep'  ony  o'  the  miscellaneous 
trash  that'll  ha'e  to  be  shifted  afore  we  can  get 
to  work.  Maybe  it's  because  I'm  a  single  man. 
Maybe  I've  hoarded  rubbish  because  I've  never 
had  onything  worth  the  hoardin'.  Try  the  next 
door.  I  think  ye'll  find  mair  variety  there.  If 
there's  onything  ye  think  worth  while  the  an- 
nexin',  help  yersel."  Mr.  Redhorn  dropped 
back  in  his  chair,  and  lit  a  cigarette  of  the  worst 
possible  quality. 

Presently  the  apprentice  put  the  question: 
"What  dae  ye  keep  this  for?" 

"What?"  said  the  painter,  lazily.  Then  he  sat 
up. 

The  boy  was  holding  out  a  heavy  piece  of 
white  earthenware,  very  dusty,  on  which  was 
printed  in  thick  black  letters  the  word 
DOG. 


"THE  WEE  DUG"  121 

"Did  ye  once  keep  a  dog,  Maister  Ridhorn?" 

"I  did,"  slowly  the  man  answered,  and  quickly 
added,  "pro  tern" 

" What  kin'  o'  dug  was  it?" 

"If  ye've  ony  use  for  the  dish,"  said  Mr.  Red- 
horn,  as  though  he  'had  not  heard,  "ye  can  tak' 
it  hame  wi'  ye.  I've  never  used  it — I  mean  to 
say,  it's  never  been  used."  He  got  up,  crossed 
the  floor,  and  began  to  rummage  in  a  drawer. 
"There  was  a  collar,  likewise,  that  was  never 
used.  Oh,  here  it  is!  Ye'll  maybe  get  a  dug 
to  fit  it  some  o'  these  days.  It's  got  ma  name  on 
it,  but  the  plate  could  easy  be  changed.  There 
ye  are!" 

"Thenk  ye.  ...  When  was  it  ye  had  the 
dug,  Maister  Ridhorn?" 

"Afore  your  time."  The  reply  was  curt,  and 
perhaps  the  man  realized  as  much,  for  he  added 
kindly,  "I'll  maybe  tell  ye  aboot  ma — the  wee 
dug  anither  day,  Wullie,  though  it's  no'  a  story 
worth  the  tellin'." 


Perhaps  not — as  Joseph  Redhorn  would  have 
told  it.  But  as  Joseph  Redhorn  knew  it? — well, 
it  is  for  the  reader  to  say. 

"Afore  your  time,"  he  had  said  to  his  appren- 
tice, and  the  precise  date  is  immaterial. 

The  thing  happened  in  the  blackest  hour  of 


122  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

Mr.  Redhorn's  life — at  the  blackest  moment  of 
that  hour.  Any  grown-up  person  in  Fairport 
could  have  told  you  how  once,  for  a  period  of 
years,  the  painter,  apart  from  his  day's  work, 
had  appeared  to  be  a  confirmed  recluse,  and  such 
a  person  could  also,  doubtless,  have  proffered 
theories  to  account  for  this  choice  of  solitude. 
The  simple  facts  are  these:  Joseph  had  always 
been  too  shy  to  be  what  is  commonly  termed 
sociable,  and  when  he  first  shut  himself  up,  the 
neighbours  made  no  attempt  to  disturb  him. 
He  shut  himself  up  to  begin  with  because  he 
had  fallen  into  a  most  miserable  state  of  health ; 
he  continued  to  shut  himself  up  because  in  his 
natural  melancholy  and  loneliness  he  allowed  his 
bodily  wretchedness  to  become  spiritual.  Simply 
that  and  nothing  more — but  that  is  a  great  deal. 
Other  men  besides  Joseph  Redhorn  have  in  such 
wise  been  pressed  to  the  verge — and  over. 

It  was  one  of  those  nights  which  we  may  call 
• — according  to  our  mood — late  autumn  or  early 
winter.  A  tempest  of  wind  and  rain  raged  over 
the  loch.  Doors  and  windows  rattled,  chimney- 
cans  toppled,  slates  and  tiles  hurtled  from  the 
village  roofs.  Fairport,  save  one  man,  was  abed, 
for  the  hour  was  late,  yet  Fairport  for  the 
greater  part  was  awake,  quaking. 

Joseph  Redhorn  was  the  one  man  not  abed,  yet 
to  all  appearances  he  had  been  sleeping  for  hours. 


"THE  WEE  DUG"  123 

He  sat  at  his  kitchen  table,  his  head  in  his  arms. 
Behind  him  was  a  dead  fire,  on  his  left  a  win- 
dow, which  each  blattering  gust  threatened  to 
burst  in,  on  his  right  the  door  which  he  was 
shortly  going  to  open — for  the  last  time. 

The  clock  wheezed,  and  slowly,  loudly,  fatally, 
told  out  midnight.  A  little  later,  Joseph  Red- 
horn  rose  stiffly.  His  face  was  ghastly  in  the 
lamplight;  his  pale  blue  eyes  were  glazed  and 
strange.  He  wiped  his  wet  brow,  muttering — 

"God,  it's  nae  use.  I  couldna  thole  anither 
day.  .  .  .  There'll  be  naebody  aboot  noo.  .  .  . 
I'll  mak'  an  end — A  man  that  doesna  matter 
to  onybody — doesna  matter  to  onybody."  He 
crossed  to  the  door,  steadily  enough,  and  auto- 
matically took  his  hat  from  the  peg.  The  house 
shook;  he  appeared  unconscious  of  any  storm. 
He  turned  the  key.  With  his  fingers  on  the 
handle  he  looked  back. 

"Na,  na.  No'  anither  day,  no'  anither  nicht, 
Almighty  God,  I  couldna  thole  it — doesna  matter 
to  onybody." 

He  opened  the  door  and  peered  into  the  roar- 
ing blackness.  He  heard  the  sound  of  many 
waters.  A  white  thing  brushed  over  his  feet. 
He  reeled  and  recovered  his  balance,  and  looked 
downwards. 

A  little  fox-terrier  was  crouching  there,  whin- 
ing, looking  up  imploringly. 


124  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"A  wee  dug,"  he  murmured  weakly,  staring, 
"a  wee  dug.  Lost — like  masel'." 

At  the  softness  of  his  voice  the  terrier  rose, 
placing  its  forepaws  against  his  knee. 

"Puir  beastie!"  He  bent  and  patted  its  head, 
stroked  its  back.  "Ye've  got  terrible  wat  an' 
dirty,  wee  dug.  But  I've  got  to  gang  awa'.  What 
am  I  to  dae  wi'  ye?" 

The  terrier  licked  the  back  of  his  hand. 

And  something  happened  to  Joseph  Redhorn. 
Leaning  against  the  wall,  he  put  his  hands  to  his 
face.  "Ma  God,  ma  God!"  he  sobbed. 

Presently  he  closed  and  locked  the  door,  and 
signing  to  the  terrier  to  follow  him,  went  over 
to  the  hearth  and  sat  down  in  his  easy-chair.  The 
terrier  squatted  on  the  ragged  rug,  shivering 
painfully,  and  gazed  up  in  his  face  expectantly. 

"Ye're  cauld — perishin',"  he  said  unsteadily, 
for  he  also  was  shivering.  "An'  ye'll  be  hungry/' 
He  got  up  and  fetched  some  biscuits,  broke  them, 
and  began  to  feed  his  visitor.  "Ye're  fair  starvin' ! 
I  think  I  best  licht  the  fire." 

Within  three  minutes,  thanks  to  a  plentiful 
supply  of  wood  drenched  with  paraffin,  he  had  a 
glorious  blaze,  upon  which  he  threw  coal. 

"Wee  dug,  yeVe  surely  had  a  lang,  weary  jour- 
ney," he  said,  for  the  terrier  had  collapsed  upon 
its  side  before  the  warmth.  "I  wonder  if  ye 
wud  bite  me  if  I  was  to  gi'e  ye  a  warm  bath. 


"THE  WEE  DUG"  125 

Wud  ye  bite  me?  Even  so,  I'll  try  the  bath. 
Ye're  that  cauld  an'  dirty." 

The  terrier  made  no  attempt  to  bite  him  while 
he  washed  it  in  his  own  tin  basin.  It  licked  his 
face  while  he  dried  it  with  a  warm  towel.  It 
appeared  to  be  refreshed,  for  it  followed  him 
briskly  when  he  went  to  forage  for  a  scrap  of 
meat  and  a  drop  of  milk.  .  .  . 

From  the  easy-chair  the  man  watched  it  eat 
its  fill.  When  it  was  satisfied  he  said — 

"I  wonder  what  they  ca'  ye,  wee  dug.  There's 
naething  on  yer  collar  but  'Marlow,  Harrington 
Hoose' — an'  Marlow's  no'  the  name  o'  a  dug, 
an'  there's  nae  Harrington  Hoose  within  ten 
miles  o'  Fairport.  What's  yer  name,  wee  dug?" 

The  terrier,  cocking  its  ears,  looked  as  if  it 
would  fain  have  told  him;  then,  unexpectedly, 
it  sprang  upon  his  knees. 

"Oh,  ye're  fine  an'  cosy  noo,"  he  said,  stroking 
the  smooth  hair.  "I  suppose  I'll  ha'e  to  see  the 
polisman  aboot  ye  in  the  mornin'." 

An  hour  later  he  procured  an  old  blanket, 
wrapped  his  guest  in  it,  and  laid  the  bundle 
before  the  fire,  which  he  replenished. 

How  he  himself  passed  the  remainder  of  that 
wild  night  is  not  to  be  set  down  here. 

In  the  morning  he  approached  the  village  con- 
stable, who  promised  to  make  inquiries  and  do 
all  things  possible  in  order  to  discover  the  owner. 


126  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Can  I  get  keepin'  it  in  the  meantime?"  the 
painter  asked  rather  anxiously.  "I  dinna  ken  a 
thing  aboot  dugs." 

"Same  here — except  that  I  ken  this  yin's  a 
'she'  an'  no'  an  'it.'  Ye  should  speak  to  Mason, 
the  grocer." 

So  the  painter  went  diffidently  to  the  grocer, 
an  old  man  who  once  or  twice  in  the  past  had 
asked  him  to  supper. 

"A  bonny  wee  thing — no  lang  since  she  was 
a  pup,"  said  the  grocer.  "If  I  was  you,"  he 
added,  smiling,  "I  wud  be  prayin'  for  an  acci- 
dent to  the  owner." 

"Maybe  I  am,"  said  Joseph,  and  was  surprised 
by  his  own  words. 

The  terrier  evinced  much  distress  when  he 
made  to  tie  her  up  before  going  to  his  work. 
Fortunately  his  work  was  out-of-doors  that  day, 
a  calm  having  followed  the  storm,  and  he  de- 
cided to  take  her  with  him.  Going  and  return- 
ing he  met  neighbours  who  seemed  interested 
in  his  new  comrade;  the  "doggy"  ones  stopped 
to  ask  questions,  or  to  praise  the  creature's 
"points,"  and  they  also  gave  advice.  They  said 
she  was  a  valuable  one,  but  Joseph  did  not  need 
to  be  told  that. 

By  evening  he  was  in  a  curiously  excited  state 
of  mind.  In  those  twelve  hours  he  had  spoken 
socially  with  more  people  than  in  the  past  twelve 


"THE  WEE  DUG"  127 

months.  All  the  same,  he  spent  a  dreadful  night 
with  himself.  But  the  next  night  was  not  quite 
so  bad,  and  the  next  again  was  almost  tolerable. 

On  the  fourth  night  from  the  coming  of  the 
"wee  dug"  he  enjoyed  the  best  rest  he  had  had 
for  many  a  long  month.  He  wakened  but  once, 
and  it  was  not  an  unhappy  wakening.  He  was 
disturbed  by  a  tugging  at  the  bedclothes. 

"Eh,  what's  that?  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  yersel',  is  it? 
What  are  ye  wantin',  wee  dug?"  He  reached 
down  his  hand  in  the  dark,  and  felt  the  comfort- 
ing lick.  Then  the  terrier  made  springs  at  the 
edge  of  the  bed.  "Was  ye  wantin'  up?  Was 
ye  f eelin'  lanesome  ?  Come  then !"  He  drew 
her  up  to  him.  She  nestled  against  him,  licking 
his  face. 

"Oh,  wee  dug,"  he  whispered,  "ye've  surely 
got  a  soul,  for  it's  only  the  things  wi'  souls  that 
feel  lanesome." 

On  the  fifth  and  following  nights  she  slept  on 
the  bed.  Joseph  continued  to  rest  well,  but  his 
days  were  unsettled  by  hopes  and  fears — hopes 
that  the  owner  might  never  turn  up,  fears  lest 
he  should  arrive  at  any  moment.  And  he  dis- 
covered that  these  hopes  and  fears  were  sym- 
pathetically shared  by  quite  a  number  of  his 
neighbours. 

Daily  he  held  a  consultation  with  the  police- 
man. On  the  tenth  morning  the  policeman  said — 


128  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"I'm  thinkin'  she's  yours,  but  wait  ither  three 
days  in  case  onything  comes  o'  that  advertisement 
in  the  weekly  paper." 

Three  days  later— "Is  she  mine  noo?"  the 
painter  asked  in  little  more  than  a  whisper. 

"Wha's  is  she  ?"  the  other  laughed. 

"But— legally?" 

The  constable  scratched  his  head.  "If  I  had 
her,  she  would  be  mine's,"  he  said  at  last.  "An* 
I  wud  get  a  new  collar  for  'her." 

The  same  afternoon  Joseph  Redhorn  took 
boat  for  the  town  across  the  firth. 

In  the  early  evening  he  returned.  On  his 
way  from  pier  to  house  he  spoke  a  word  to 
nearly  every  person  he  met — but  only  a  word, 
for  he  was  in  a  great  hurry. 

The  terrier  greeted  him  ecstatically.  He  sat 
down,  wiping  his  eyes. 

"Wee  dug,"  he  said,  "yer  mine's  noo.  Come 
an'  see  if  yer  new  collar  fits.  An'  see  the  bonny 
dish  I've  got  for  ye  to  drink  at.  Noo,  nane  o* 
yer  fun !  Be  sober  for  a  meenute,  for  I  want 
to  get  off  that  ugly  auld  collar.  Come  here,  ye 
wee  rascal! — ma  wee  dug! — " 

Without  warning  the  door  opened.  The  con- 
stable looked  in. 

"Ridhorn,"  he  said,  thickly,  "it's  hellish— but 
a  lady  has  come  for  yer  wee  dug." 

It  is  doubtful  if  he  understood  the  explana- 


"THE  WEE  DUG"  129 

tion  of  the  beautiful  lady  in  the  costly  furs, 
or  if  he  noticed  the  great  car  with  the  pale 
gentleman  in  the  tonneau.  They  belonged  to  a 
distant  town.  A  fortnight  ago  they  had  been 
motoring  through  the  district.  During  a  stop- 
page some  miles  south  of  Fairport,  the  terrier 
has  disappeared,  unnoticed.  Many  miles  north 
of  Fairport  they  had  met  with  an  accident.  The 
gentleman  had  been  seriously  injured.  The  ter- 
rier had  been  forgotten  at  first  then  advertised 
for — and  so  on  and  so  on.  .  .  .  What  did  it 
all  matter  to  Joseph  Redhorn?  His  "wee  dug" 
was  in  the  beautiful  lady's  arms  and  she  was 
calling  it  "Judy  darling/'  It  seemed  to  know  her, 
yet  cried  piteously  to  its  late  protector.  .  .  . 

The  beautiful  lady  had  said  all  that  a  lady 
need  say  in  the  way  of  gratitude,  and  now  she 
fumbled  at  a  golden  bag. 

Ere  she  could  open  it,  Joseph's  hand  made  a 
pus'hing-away  motion.  "I've  been  paid,"  he  said 
in  a  strange  voice.  "Ye'll  excuse  me."  And, 
turning,  'he  entered  his  house  and  shut  the  door. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  opened  it  to  find 
the  old  grocer  on  his  step. 

"I  jist  cam'  to  say,  Ridhorn,  that  if  ye  was 
wantin'  it,  I  could  get  ye  a  nice  wee  dug." 

"It — it's  rale  kind  o'  ye,"  said  the  painter, 
after  a  little  while,  "but  it  wud  never  be  the 
same." 


The  old  grocer  hesitated.  "Weel,  I  can  under- 
stan'  ye  feelin'  that  way,  so  111  no'  say  ony  mair 
aboot  it.  But  noo  the  wife  an'  me  wud  like  ye 
to  come  an'  tak'  a  bite  o'  supper.  It's  ready, 
waitin'  for  us.  Will  ye  come?" 

Joseph  was  about  to  refuse,  when  something 
welled  up  in  his  heart.  "God  bless  ye,"  he  said 
suddenly;  "I  will." 


After  Willie  had  gone  away  with  the  dish  and 
collar  and  sundry  articles  he  had  fancied,  Mr. 
Redhorn  sat  still  in  the  gathering  dusk.  And  at 
last  he  spoke — very  softly: 

"Wee  dug,  ye're  no'  to  think  I  forgot  ye 
because  I  gi'ed  awa'  the  things  ye  never  used. 
If  ye  had  used  them,  they  wudna  ha'e  been  laid 
by  wi'  the  rubbish — no'  likely,  wee  dug!  .  .  . 
ma  wee  dug!" 


VIII 
FIVE  AND  THIRTY  SHILLINGS 

MR.  REDHORN  lay  back  in  his  shabby 
chair,  his  eyes  half-closed,  his  left  palm 
pressed  upon  his  scalp.     His  long,  sad 
nose  looked  even  longer  and  sadder,  his  mous- 
tache drooped  more  despondingly,  than  usual.  At 
brief  intervals  he  heaved  a  hopeless  sigh. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth  sat  'his 
apprentice,  Willie  McWattie,  whom  he  had  in- 
vited that  evening  to  tea  and  a  game  of  draughts. 
Strangely  enough,  the  restless,  fun-loving  boy 
had  of  late  become  a  devotee  of  the  sober  game — 
much  to  his  employer's  gratification.  Yet  to- 
night, though  the  meal  was  over  half  an  hour 
ago,  Mr.  Redhorn  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all 
about  draughts.  During  tea  he  had  glanced  at 
an  evening  paper,  groaned,  ceased  eating,  and  re- 
Japsed  into  a  silence  that  had  remained  almost  un- 
broken until  now.  Willie  was  not  unaccustomed 
to  his  employer's  fits  of  moodiness — indeed,  they 
had  been  fairly  frequent  during  the  past  two 
months — but  the  prolongation  of  the  present  spell 
131 


132  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

was  becoming  too  much  for  'his  patience.  He 
shuffled  his  feet  softly,  cleared  his  throat,  and 
remarked : 

"It's  gettin'  near  the  New  Year." 

The  clock  ticked  a  dozen  times  ere  Mr.  Red- 
horn  signified  that  he  had  heard. 

"Ay,"  he  breathed  heavily.  "As  ye  say, 
IVullie,  it's  gettin'  near  the  New  Year — a  season 
o'  gloomy  reflections  an'  dire  f orebodin's.  Ay !" 
His  hand  slid  down  and  rested  on  his  nose,  cov- 
ering his  eyes. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Willie  inquired 
sympathetically : 

"Is't  the  chilblains  or  the  dyspeepsia,  Maister 
Ridhorn?" 

"Both,"  was  the  curt  reply.  "But  ye  needna 
think  they're  the  cause  o'  the  reflections  an'  fore- 
bodin's.  Ma  pheesical  afflictions  are  ill  to  bear, 
laddie,"  the  painter  continued  in  something  like 
his  own  kindly  voice,  "but  they're  naething  to 
the  mental  species,  or  variety,  that  I've  got  to 
endure — chiefly  through  ma  ain  foolishness,"  he 
added  with  a  groan. 

"But  what's  up?"  the  boy  asked  with  anxiety. 

Mr.  Redhorn  uncovered  his  face.  He  smiled 
with  exceeding  bitterness. 

"It's  no*  so  much  what's  up  as  what's  doon," 
he  said,  and  allowed  his  apprentice  to  look  blank 
for  fifteen  seconds  or  so.  "Maybe,"  he  resumed, 


FIVE  AND  THIRTY  SHILLINGS   133 

"I  betrayed  ma  emotion  in  the  midst  o'  ma  tea 
the  nicht.  Did  ye  notice  onything  when  I  was 
lookin'  at  the  paper?" 

"Ay;  ye  grunted  as  if  something  was  hurtin' 
ye.  But  I  thought  it  wud  jist  be  the  chalblains 
on  yer  toes."  » 

"Weel,  ye  thought  wrang,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn, 
with  asperity.  "I've  a  guid  mind  to  keep  ma 
trouble  to  masel',  but  they  say  confession's  guid 
for  the  soul — " 

"Ha'e  ye  got  them  on  yer  sole,  forbye?" 

"Haud  yer  tongue,  laddie!  I'm  no'  referrin' 
to  chilblains  at  a'.  I  tell't  ye  ma  affliction  was 
mental.  Ma  emotion  on  lookin'  at  the  paper 
the  nicht  was  due  to  the  fac'  that  Jingoes  is 
doon  anither  eighteenpence.  Of  course  that 
statement  conveys  naething  whatever  to  you." 

"Pm  sure  I  dinna  ken  what  ye're  gas — speak- 
in'  aboot,"  said  Willie,  a  little  irritably.  "Ha'e 
ye  been  bettin'  on  horses?" 

"What!"    Mr.  Redhorn  sat  up. 

"Weel,"  said  Willie,  abashed,  "that's  whaJt 
they're  sayin'  aboot  ye  in  Fairport." 

"Wha's  sayin'  it  ?  Wha  dares  to  say  that  aboot 
me?" 

"Danks,  the  fishmonger,  an' — an'  everybody." 

Mr.  Redhorn  gasped.  "An'  dae  you  think  I'm 
bettin'  on  horses,  Wullie  McWattie?  I'm  sure 


134  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

I've  tell't  ye  a  score  o'  times  that  I  wud  as  sune 
put  masel'  as  ma  siller  on  a  'horse !" 

"Ay,  but  ye  see — ye  see,  ye  buy  a  paper  every 
nicht.  Ye've  been  buyin'  a  paper  every  nicht 
for  a  while  back." 

Mr.  Redhorn  recoiled ;  he  smote  his  forehead. 
"This,"  he  groaned,  "this  is  redistribution— I 
mean  retribution!  Ma  character  forbye  ma 
money  is  gone — completely  went !" 

"But  if  ye  ha'ena  been  bettin'  on  horses, 
Maister  Ridhorn,"  said  the  boy,  "I'll  sune  let 
Danks  an'  the  rest  ken  they're  tellin'  falsehoods. 
An'  even  if  ye  'had  been  try  in'  yer  luck,  I  wud 
sune  let  them  see — 

"Whisht,  laddie— I  ken  ye're  loyal,  but—" 

"I'll  gang  noo  an'  tell  Danks — " 

"Na,  na !"  the  painter  cried  hastily.  "Let  well 
alone — nae  matter  hoo  bad  it  is.  In  this  case 
the  truth  isna  muckle  better  nor  what  they 
imagine  aboot  me.  Hoo  am  I  to  explain  it  to 
ye?"  Mr.  Redhorn  stroked  his  nose. 

"What's  Jingoes,  onyway?"  Willie  inquired. 

"Jingoes,"  the  painter  replied  sadly,  "is  He- 
at least,  it's  an  ile  comp'ny,  leemited.  I'm  no' 
sure  where  it  gets  the  ile — if  ony;  but  I've  got 
fifty  shares  in  it  that  cost  me  fifty  pound  odds. 
That's  Jingoes !" 

"Aw,"  murmured  Willie,  apparently  not 
deeply  impressed. 


FIVE  AND   THIRTY   SHILLINGS    135 

Mr.  Redhorn  looked  disappointed.  "I  sup- 
pose ye  dinna  ken  what  a  share  is — an'  I  hope, 
for  yer  ain  sake,  ye  never  will,"  he  said.  "But 
seein'  I've  been  suspected  o'  bettin'  on  horses, 
it's  up  to  me,  as  the  French  says — in  their  ain 
tongue,  of  course — to  inform  ye  o'  the  true  state 
o'  affairs.  D'ye  see?" 

"Ay,  I  see,"  Willie  answered,  dubiously.  "But 
are  ye  no'  for  a  game  at  the  draughts  the  nicht, 
Maister  Ridhorn?" 

"The  draughts  ha'e  to  wait.  But,  of  course, 
if  ye  dinna  want  to  hear  the  truth — if  ye're  no' 
interested  in  ma  woe — " 

"Ay;  I  want  to  hear  aboot  it,"  said  Willie, 
with  forced  eagerness. 

"Aweel,  I'll  unbosom  masel',  as  it  were.  .  .  . 
Noo,  pay  attention !  If  ye  dinna  aye  understan' 
what  I'm  sayin',  preserve  yer  queries  till  I've  con- 
cluded ma  remarks.  In  the  first  place — weel, 
I  wud  maybe  be  the  better  o'  a  dose  o'  the 
Elixir."  Having  risen  and  helped  himself  from 
the  physic  bottle  on  the  mentelpiece,  he  resumed 
his  seat  with  a  very  wry  face.  "In  the  first 
place,  Wullie — " 

"Ye're  at  the  second  place  noo." 

"I'm  what?" 

"The  Elixir  was  in  the  first  place." 

"Tits,  laddie !  The  Elixir  was  merely  an  aside, 
as  William  Shakespeare  says.  In  the  first  place, 


136  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

I'm  prepared  to  sweer  that  previous  to  the  pres- 
ent I  never  bought  a  share  in  ony  concern — I'm 
prepared  to  tak'  ma  solemn  oath — " 

"I  believe  ye." 

"It  isna  necessary  to  interrup'  me.  I  was 
aboot  to  say — in  ony  concern  excep'  a  burial  so- 
ciety that  gaed  bankrupt  shortly  efter  obtainin' 
ma  cash.  Ye  micht  think  that  wud  be  a  lesson 
to  me,  but  it  wasna."  Mr.  Redhorn  heaved  a 
heavy  sigh.  "The  years  passed  by,  an'  on  the 
first  Seturday  in  October  o'  this  rotten  year  I 
payed  ma  quarterly  veesit  to  Glesca.  As  is  ma 
custom,  I  called  on  McCorkindale,  the  ile  an' 
colour  merchant,  to  pay  ma  account,  an'  to  com- 
plain o'  the  scandalous  prices  he  had  been 
chargin'  me  for  linseed.  His  sole  excuse  was 
that  ile  was  high  an'  still  risin'.  Then  he  changed 
the  subjec',  as  was  maybe  nateral,  an'  we  had 
some  conversation  entirely  irreverent  to  the 
pentin'  trade,  an'  consumed  a  ceegarette  apiece. 
I  was  for  makin'  ma  exit,  so  to  speak,  when  he 
gi'es  a  bit  laugh  an'  says,  says  he:  'Ridhorn, 
dae  ye  never  try  a  flutter?'  I  thought  he  was 
for  takin'  a  rise  oot  o'  me,  an'  I  retorted  in 
these  words:  'Maister  McCorkindale,  dae  I  look 
like  a  man  that  wud  risk  his  neck  on  an  airy- 
plane?'" 

"Ye  had  him  there,"  observed  Willie,  who  was 
getting  tired  of  saying  nothing. 


FIVE  AND  THIRTY  SHILLINGS    137 

"Weel,  I  thought  I  had— but  I  hadna.  It 
appeared  that  I  had  misconstrued  him.  Accordin' 
to  Maister  McCorkindale,  the  word  'flutter' 
means  a  speculation — which  is  jist  aboot  as  safe 
a  game  as  the  thing  I  thought  it  was.  Then  it 
further  appeared  that  ile  s'hares  was  boomin', 
as  they  say,  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  an'  was 
likely  to  conteenue  the  performance  for  anither 
five  year  or  so.  Then  Maister  McCorkindale 
tell't  me  a  lang  story  aboot  Jingoe  shares  bein' 
the  best  in  the  market.  They  hadna  commenced 
boomin'  then,  but  they  was  expected  to  commence 
at  ony  moment.  'Buy  Jingoes/  says  he,  'an  ye'll 
never  regret  it !'  'By  Jingo,'  says  I,  Til  eat  ma 
hat  first!'" 

"Weel,  ye  had  him  that  time,  onyway,"  re- 
marked the  apprentice,  checking  a  yawn. 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head.  "Wud  ye  be- 
lieve me,  Wullie,  the  man  persuaded  me  agin 
ma  better  judgment!  It  took  time,  but  he  done 
it !  The  next  I  knew  was  him  introducin'  me  to 
a  stockbroker,  a  weel-set-up  young  man  wi'  a 
pleasin'  smile,  an'  lovely  collar  an'  cuffs,  an'  a 
scent  o'  breath-perfumers  at  a  penny  per  ounce, 
an'  a  gorgeously  app'inted  office.  He  stood  me 
a  ceegarette  wi'  a  gold  neb  to  it,  an'  was  ex- 
tremely affable.  He  kenned  a'  aboot  Fairport, 
for  he  had  once  passed  it  in  his  yacht,  three  year 
back.  An'  so  we  cam'  to  business. — Wullie, 


138  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

there's  a  bottle  o'  leemonade  in  the  press.    Help 
yersel'." 

"Thenk  ye,"  said  Willie,  obeying  with  alacrity. 
"An'  what  happened  then,  Maister  Ridhorn?" 

"The  worst !"  sighed  the  painter.  "It  appeared 
that  Jingoes  was  then  standin'  aboot  par — par 
bein'  the  price  a  share's  supposed  to  be  worth, 
bar  accidents,  which  is  frequent.  In  this  case 
par  was  a  pound  sterlin'.  The  upshot  was  that 
I  said  I  wud  buy  fifty.  At  that  the  stockbroker 
says  to  the  telephone :  'Buy  fifty  Jingoes.'  .  .  . 
An'  it  done  it!  Fifty  Jingoes  at  twinty  shillin's 
an'  fowerpence-ha'penny  per  Jingoe!  I  (was 
gettin'  oot  a  cheque  when  the  stockbroker  said 
it  wasna  necessary,  an'  McCorkindale  said  I 
didna  need  to  pay  onything  unless  Jingoes  gaed 
doon — fancy  him  sayin'  that,  efter  assurin'  me 
they  was  gaun  up !  But  I  wasna  gaun  in  for  ony 
hanky-panky,  an'  I  drew  the  cheque,  an'  got 
a  receipt,  an'  cam'  awa'.  Mind  ye,  I  was  neither 
vexed  nor  ashamed  at  the  time.  I  was  puffed 
up  wi'  importance  an  cupeedity;  an'  if  I  hadna 
had  to  run  for  the  train  I  wud  ha'e  bought  masel' 
a  new  necktie."  Mr.  Redhorn  paused. 

"Was  that  the  end  ?"  inquired  Willie,  resuming 
his  seat,  glass  in  hand. 

"The  end?    Ye  mean  the  beginnin'?" 

"But  what  did  ye  get  for  yer  money?" 

"A  month  rolled  on,"  said  the  painter  heavily, 


FIVE  AND   THIRTY   SHILLINGS    139 

"an'  then  I  got  what  they  ca'  a  certeeficate.  I 
confess  it  was  a  work  o'  art,  beautifully  printed 
on  the  sort  o'  paper  ye  buy  butter  in.  I'll  maybe 
let  ye  see  it  some  day.  Meantime  I  canna  endure 
the  sicht  o'  it.  Even  since  I  bought  the  shares, 
they've  been  ablow  par — an'  so  ha'e  I.  An'  noo 
they're  doon  to  fifteen  shillin's,  or  thereabouts. 
If  I  was  sellin'  them  noo,  I  wud  drap  twelve 
pound,  ten.  But  if  I  dinna  sell  them  I'll  maybe 
loss  ma  fifty  pound.  On  the  ither  hand,  Mc- 
Corkindale  says  their  time's  comin',  an',  if  I 
haud  on,  I'll  mak'  a  hunderd  pound  profit.  My ! 
it's  an  awfu'  quandary  to  be  in,  laddie.  I  canna 
sleep  at  nicht  for  thinkin'  o'  it.  Chilblains  an' 
dyspeepsia  are  naething  to  shares.  ...  If  I 
could  jist  get  back  the  money  I  paid  for  them !" 

"If  I  was  you,"  said  Willie,  who  had  gained 
but  the  vaguest  .notion  of  what  his  employer  was 
talking  about,  "I  wud  ha'e  a  try  for  a  hunderd 
pound." 

"If  I  made  a  hunderd  pound,"  said  the  painter, 
"I  wud  never  again  be  able  to  look  ma  conscience 
in  the  face.  For,  ye  see,  I've  aye  been  doon  on 
gamblin'  in  ony  shape  or  form.  An'  if  that 
wudna  be  gamblin',  I  dinna  ken  what  gamblin' 
is." 

"But  what  did  ye  buy  the  Jingoes  for?" 

"Weel,  to  tell  ye  the  honest  truth,  Wullie — for 
it's  nae  excuse  to  say  I  lost  ma  heid — I  thought 


140  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

if  I  could  mak'  twinty  pound  off  the  Jingoes, 
it  wud  pay  for  the  bad  debt  that  a  certain  gen- 
tleman let  me  in  for  at  the  beginnin'  o'  the  year. 
Moreover,  it's  been  a  rotten  bad  year,  takin' 
it  a'  roun':  naething  but  petty  jobs,  an*  no' 
enough  o'  them.  Trade's  been  poorer  nor  I  can 
mind.  But  I  shouldna  ha'e  let  masel'  be  tempted ; 
an'  if  I  loss  ma  money  noo,  it'll  be  neither  mair 
nor  less  nor  just  retribution." 

Willie  paused  in  the  act  of  raising  the  tumbler 
to  his  lips.  "I  wud  like  fine  to  see  ye  mak'  a 
hunderd  pound,  Maister  Ridhorn,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Redhorn  put  up  his  hand.  "Whisht,  lad- 
die! Forget  what  I've  tell't  ye.  I  had  to  tell 
somebody,  an'  it  seemed  there  was  naebody  but 
you.  .  .  .  Fetch  the  draughts." 


Whether  or  not  Mr.  Redhorn's  confession 
benefited  his  soul,  it  did  not  appear  to  have  any 
improving  effect  on  his  spirits.  As  the  days 
passed  he  became  more  melancholy,  more  irri- 
table, and,  what  chiefly  disturbed  the  mind  of  his 
apprentice,  more  given  to  long  fits  of  silence. 
Hitherto  his  afflictions — mental  or  "pheesical" — 
had  by  no  means  rendered  him  mute;  on  the 
contrary,  he  had  been  often  ready  to  discuss 
them,  and  not  without  a  certain  dry  humour, 
which  Willie  rather  enjoyed,  though  he  did  not 
always  catch  the  full  significance  thereof.  At  all 


FIVE  AND  THIRTY  SHILLINGS    141 

events,  the  boy  preferred  any  conversation  to 
none,  and  the  day's  work  in  company  with  his 
elderly  employer  became  a  dull  business.  Only 
once  did  'he  venture  to  refer  to  Jingoes,  and  then 
Mr.  Redhorn  cut  him  short,  requesting  him  to 
forget  forthwith  that  such  things  existed  in  this 
unhappy  world,  or  words  to  that  effect.  And 
there  were  no  more  invitations  to  tea  or  a  game 
of  draughts.  It  is  to  the  credit  of  Willie  Mc- 
Wattie  that  he  nourished  no  resentment.  Youth 
does  not,  as  a  rule,  dwell  upon  the  memories  of 
past  benefits,  and  it  is  highly  doubtful  whether 
Willie  gave  a  minute's  reflection  to  the  many 
kindnesses,  numerous  pardons,  and  all  the  patient 
treatment  received  of  his  master  during  his  ap- 
prenticeship. But  he  did  feel  sorry  for  his 
master,  and  was  ready  to  champion  the  latter's 
name  and  fame  against  the  whole  of  Fairport, 
if  necessary. 

As  for  Mr.  Redhorn's  depression,  it  was  far 
from  being  entirely  due  to  the  depression  of 
Jingoes.  To  lose  money  was  as  little  agreeable 
to  the  painter  as  it  is  to  most  men,  but  to  lose 
reputation  was  a  still  more  serious  calamity. 
The  thought  of  his  neighbours  regarding  him 
as  a  "sportsman"  rankled  horribly.  He  might 
just  as  well,  he  acknowledged  bitterly  to  himself, 
have  put  his  money  on  horses;  he  deserved  the 
worst  his  neighbours  could  say  of  him.  More- 


142  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

over,  he  was  plagued  by  a  suspicion  that  he  had 
been  "done" — or  "diddled,"  as  he  would  have 
expressed  it;  and  perhaps  it  was  this  that  ac- 
counted for  his  irritability,  for  hitherto  he  had 
rather  flattered  himself  on  his  discretion  in  mat- 
ters of  finance. 

But  the  most  depressing  thoughts  of  all  had 
to  do  with  his  apprentice.  He  wished  most  fer- 
vently that  he  had  never  confided  in  Willie, 
not  that  he  dreaded  betrayal  of  his  secret,  but 
simply  because  he  was  quite  sure  that  Willie 
must  despise  him  for  a  fool  and  a  hypocrite.  For 
while  Joseph  desired  to  stand  well  in  the  eyes 
of  the  public — i.  e.  the  inhabitants  of  the  village 
and  its  vicinity — he  prized  above  all  things  the 
respect  and  regard  of  his  apprentice.  And  dur- 
ing those  dismal  days  he  got  into  the  way  of 
stealing  furtive  wistful  glances  at  the  boy's  face, 
compressing  his  lips  and  shaking  his  head,  tell- 
ing himself  that  Willie  was  now  "workin'  for 
wages  an'  naething  else." 

He  stopped  purchasing  the  evening  paper — 
and  almost  immediately,  thanks  to  Mr.  Banks 
and  his  cronies,  Fairport  was  browsing  on 
rumours  of  varied  plausibility,  but  all  to  the 
effect,  that  Redhorn,  the  painter,  had  "burst  his- 
sel'  on  horses"  and  was  on  the  verge  of  financial 
ruin.  Needless  to  say,  the  gossip  reached  Willie's 
ears;  indeed,  a  youthful  acquaintance  went  so 


FIVE  AND   THIRTY   SHILLINGS    143 

far  as  to  warn  Willie  that  he  might  soon  be 
"out  of  a  job."  Willie's  indignation  was  great, 
yet  not  equal  to  his  anxiety  on  his  master's  ac- 
count. The  punch  which  the  youthful  acquaint- 
ance promptly  received  upon  his  nose  was  but 
half-hearted,  and  the  fight  that  followed  was 
perfunctory  so  far  as  Willie  was  concerned; 
he  merely  defended  himself  until  his  opponent 
was  tired  out,  and  then  went  off  to  bathe  a  cut 
lip. 

"But  what  was  it  aboot?"  Mr.  Redhorn  in- 
quired that  afternoon,  speaking  for  almost  the 
first  time  that  day. 

"Naething,"  the  boy  replied,  more  curtly  than 
he  intended. 

There  was  a  pause  ere  Mr.  Redhorn  said  sadly : 
"Ye  ken  I  dinna  like  ye  fightin',  Wullie.  .  .  . 
But  I  suppose  it's  no'  ma'  place  to  interfere  wi* 
ye  in  ony  way." 

For  the  better  part  of  a  week  Mr.  Redhorn 
did  without  a  newspaper.  He  purchased  a  sup- 
ply of  penny  novelettes.  For  many  years — until 
his  introduction  to  Jingoes — he  had  spent  most 
of  his  lonely  evenings  in  the  perusal  of  such 
works.  But  now  the  heroines  had  lost  their 
charm,  the  villains  their  thrill.  For  four  nights 
he  persevered  with  the  pleasure  that  had  become 
a  task.  On  the  fifth  evening,  in  a  storm  of  wind 
and  rain,  he  set  out  for  Kilmabeg,  the  next  vil- 


144  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

lage,  about  three  miles  distant.  He  arrived  there 
to  find  the  shop  of  the  only  newsagent  locked  up 
and  shuttered.  He  came  home  drenched  to  the 
skin. 

Mr.  Redhorn  was  wont  to  describe  a  cold  in 
the  head  as  "the  shupreme  acme  o'  meesery."  In 
his  case  it  was  certainly  always  a  serious  affair. 
Within  twenty-four  hours  he  was  prostrated. 
He  sent  word  to  his  apprentice,  bidding  'him 
enjoy  three  idle  days,  and  himself  prepared  for 
strict  seclusion  from  his  fellow-creatures  for  a 
like  period.  Huddled  in  his  chair  in  front  of  the 
fire,  the  unhappy  man  denied  himself  to  all  com- 
ers, including  Mr.  Danks,  who,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
called  less  out  of  sympathy  than  curiosity. 

The  refusal  of  admittance  roused  the  fishmon- 
ger's worst  suspicions,  and  within  an  hour  Fair- 
port  was  whispering  that  the  painter  was  already 
bankrupt  and  merely  feigning  illness  because  he 
was  ashamed  to  appear. 

There  was  a  discreet  tapping  at  the  door. 

Mr.  Redhorn  moved  impatiently  in  his  chair, 
but  did  not  answer. 

The  tapping  was  repeated  several  times. 

"Wha's  there?"  the  invalid  at  last  demanded 
crossly. 

"Me." 

"Wullie?" 


FIVE  AND  THIRTY   SHILLINGS    145 

"Ay." 

"Aweel,  I  canna  let  ye  in  the  nicht." 

A  pause. 

"Please  let  me  in,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

"What  dae  ye  want?" 

"I — I've  a  message  for  ye." 

"I  canna  attend  to  business  the  noo." 

"It's  no'  business.    Please  let  me  in." 

"Come  the  morn,  Wullie.  .  .  .  I'm  no'  fit 
to  speak  to  ye  the  nicht — I'm  no'  fit  for  human 
consumption." 

Another  pause. 

"Maister  Ridhorn." 

"Weel,  what  is't?" 

"If — if  ye  dinna  let  me  in,  I'll  bide  here  a' 
nicht — an'  it's  freezin'  hard." 

At  that  Mr.  Redhorn  rose. 

"Is't  important,  laddie?" 

"Ay— terrible!" 

Mr.  Redhorn  opened  the  door.  "Come  in — 
quick."  He  sneezed  violently.  "Are  ye  no'  feart 
ye  get  the  cauld  frae  me?" 

"Na.  .  .  .  Ma  mither  was  bakin',  an'  she 
sent  ye  some  treacle  scones."  The  boy  laid  a 
parcel  on  the  table.  His  eyes  avoided  his  em- 
ployer. Perhaps  he  didn't  want  to  laugh.  Mr. 
Redhorn,  muffled  in  an  old  overcoat  and  shawl, 
with  a  red  woollen  nightcap  on  his  head,  was 
a  grotesque  enough  object. 


i46  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"I'm  greatly  obleeged  to  yer  mither,"  said  the 
painter  gently.  "Why  did  ye  no'  say  it  was  a 
message  frae  her?" 

"It  wasna  the  only  message,"  replied  Willie, 
'his  eyes  on  the  floor. 

"Aweel,  ye  best  sit  doon,"  Mr.  Redhorn  said, 
pointing  to  a  chair.  "Ye'll  excuse  ma  present 
condeetion  o'  meesery.  I'm  sorry  I've  nae  lee- 
monade  on  the  premises."  He  sighed,  and 
dropped  into  his  seat.  "Draw  yer  chair  to  the 
fire." 

Willie  did  so,  still  avoiding  his  host's  glances. 

"Hoo's  yer  cauld?"  he  inquired. 

"It'll  be  worse  afore  it's  better.  But  it's  only 
yin  o'  ma  troubles." 

"Ye'll  be  feelin'  yer  chilblains?" 

"Ay.  .  .  On  the  whole,  laddie,  I'm  feelin'  ripe 
for  the  tomb.  An' — an'  ma  heart's  as  heavy  as 
ma  heid.  .  .  .  But  ye  said  ye  had  a  message. 
Wha  frae?" 

The  boy  reddened.  "Me,"  he  said  at  last, 
lookingly  desperately  uncomfortable. 

"You?" 

"Ay." 

The  painter  seemed  to  shrink  in  his  chair. 
"Ha'e  ye — ha'e  ye  come  to  tell  me  ye  want  to 
leave  me?"  he  asked  huskily. 

"Leave  ye!" 


FIVE  AND   THIRTY   SHILLINGS    147 

"Leave  ma  employment.  Ye're  no'  bound  to 
me  in  ony  way — " 

"I  dinna  ken  what  ye're  talkin'  aboot,"  said 
Willie,  regarding  his  host  for  the  first  time.  Then 
— "Dae  ye  want  me  to  leave?"  he  cried  in  great 
anxiety. 

"Na,  na,  laddie,"  Mr.  Redhorn  replied  hur- 
riedly, turning  away  to  conceal  his  relief.  "I 
merely  meant.  .  .  .  Weel,  I'll  say  nae  mair 
aboot  it."  He  smiled  feebly.  "I'm  afraid  I've 
been  broodin'  in  solitude  till  I  ha'e  got  stupid 
notions  in  ma  heid.  .  .  .  But  I'm  ready  to  hear 
yer  message." 

Once  more  the  boy  became  ill  at  ease. 

"I'm  listenin',"  said  the  painter  encourag- 
ingly. "Speak  up." 

Willie  wet  his  lips.  "I — I  bought  a  paper  the 
nicht,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "An'  I  seen  yer 
Jingoes  priced  at  three-ha'pence.  I — I  was  vexed 
for  ye."  He  did  not  mention  what  a  puzzle  the 
financial  columns  had  been  to  him.  "I  hope  ye're 
no  offended  wi'  me  for  buyin'  the  paper,"  he 
went  on,  his  courage  failing  at  the  silence  of  the 
other.  "I — I  was  kin'  o'  anxious  for  ye.  I've  got 
five—" 

"Three-ha'pence!"  gasped  Mr.  Redhorn. 
"Aweel" — bitterly,  "it's  as  much  as  I  deserved." 

Willie  looked  up.    "Did  ye  no'  ken?" 


"I  ha'ena  seen  a  paper  for  a  week.  .  .  . 
Three-ha'pence!  Man,  but  that's  deplorable!" 

"M — Maister  Ridhorn."  Willie  looked  down 
again. 

"Ay?" 

The  words  came  with  a  rush.  "I've  got  five 
an'  thirty  shillin's  in  the  savin's  bank,  an'  ye're 
awfu'  welcome." 

It  was  a  sight  to  see  the  red  fly  to  the  man's 
face:  "Oh,  Wullie!"  he  whispered;  and  again, 
"Oh,  Wullie,  Wullie !  .  .  .  A  cauld  in  the  heid 
aye  mak's  ma  eyes  that  watery." 

"Ye'll  tak'  it?"  the  boy  cried  eagerly.  "It's 
no'  much,  but — 

"It's  a'  ye've  got,  an'  ye  offer  it  to  me !  Weel, 
it'll  tak'  a  lot  o'  affliction  to  mak'  me  forget  this ! 
Thenk  ye,  laddie,  thenk  ye.  But  thenk  the 
Lord,  also,  I  dinna  need  yer  bit  honest  savin's." 

"Ye  dinna  need  it?"  Willie  was  plainly  dis- 
mayed. "Are  ye — are  ye  no'  burst — ruined?" 

"Wha  said  I  was  ruined?"  exclaimed  the 
painter.  "Oh,  it's  no'  as  bad  as  that,  an'  " — a 
soft  smile  lit  up  the  melancholy  visage — "in  yin 
respec'  I'm  a  heap  richer  nor  I  was  aweer." 
Suddenly  he  laughed.  "I  see  ye've  the  paper  in 
yer  pooch.  I'll  tak'  a  look  at  Jingoes  for  the 
last  time." 

Willie,  still  crestfallen,  drew  the  paper  from 
his  pocket  reluctantly.  "It's  no'  worth  yer  while 


FIVE  AND  THIRTY   SHILLINGS    149 

lookin'  at  it.  I  mind  fine  what  it  says  aboot 
Jingoes.  It  says  Jingoes  was  strong  at  three- 
ha'pence.  I  marked  it  wi'  a  pencil."  He  held 
out  the  paper. 

It  was  snatched  from  his  fingers. 

"What!  .  .  .  Strong!"  cried  Mr.  Redhorn. 
His  eyes  found  the  place.  "Criftens !  Here,  lad- 
die !  Quick !  I  canna  see  proper.  What  f eegures 
is  these?" 

Willie  went  to  his  side.  "A  'one'  an'  a  'half 
— three-ha' -pence." 

"Na,  na!"  It  was  a  shout  of  glee.  "It's  one 
an'  a  half,  richt  enough,  but  it  means  one  an'  a 
half  pounds — one  pound,  ten-thirty  shillin's! 
Jingoes  is  up ! — boomin' !"  A  succession  of 
sneezes  checked  his  excitement.  "I'll  sell  the 
morn,"  he  said  more  calmly.  "An'  that'll  be  near 
five  an'  twinty  pound  o'  profit  unless  they  gang 
up  furder,  an'  then  it'll  be  mair.  Man,  Wullie, 
is  that  no'  splendid?" 

Willie  admitted  this  also,  quite  gravely. 

Mr.  Redhorn  gave  him  money  and  sent  him 
out  for  lemonade,  and  the  twain  caroused  until 
near  ten  o'clock. 

It  was  not  until  Willie  had  gone  home  that 
Redhorn  discovered  that  the  two  following  days 
happened  to  be  holidays  on  the  exchange.  A  lot 
might  happen  in  two  days,  he  reflected,  some- 
what dashed,  and  he  retired  to  bed  considerably 


150  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

sobered.  And  when  Willie  called  next  day  he 
found  his  employer  disinclined  to  talk  of  Jingoes, 
though  by  no  means  steeped  in  the  gloom  of  the 
past  weeks.  For  Mr.  Redhorn  was  hugging  in 
secret  a  treasure  not  subject  to  fluctuations  in 
value  nor  within  the  influence  of  any  purse  on 
earth. 

On  the  third  morning  Mr.  Redhorn  journeyed 
to  Glasgow.  His  deeds  there  included  the  pur- 
chasing of  a  new  necktie.  (He  wore  it  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday,  and  Banks  inquired  if  he  had 
been  sober  when  he  bought  it.  Mr.  Redhorn 
cheerfully  confessed  that  he  had  been  intoxicated 
"in  a  sense,"  a  dark  saying  which  Banks  did  not 
understand  at  all.) 

He  returned  home  in  a  painful  state  of  sup- 
pressed excitement.  He  had  invited  Willie  to 
tea — otherwise  it  would  not  have  been  worth 
setting  the  meal  on  the  table.  For  Mr.  Redhorn 
could  not  eat  a  bite,  and  he  used  his  teacup 
chiefly  for  concealing  strange  involuntary  grim- 
aces. He  spoke  little,  and  forced  himself  to  look 
as  miserable  as  possible.  Willie  began  to  fear 
that  something  had  gone  wrong  in  Glasgow. 

After  tea  Mr.  Redhorn  refused  draughts,  cov- 
ered his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  groaned  several 
times. 

"Wullie,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  voice  not  his 


FIVE  AND   THIRTY   SHILLINGS    151 

own,  "was  ye  in  earnest,  when — when  ye  offered 
me  yer  money?" 

The  boy  was  taken  aback,  but  quickly  recov- 
ered himself.  "For  sure,"  he  said. 

"Because  I — I  ha'e  need  o'  it,  efter  a',"  said 
the  painter.  "An'  I  wud  rather  ye  didna  ask 
me  ony  questions." 

Willie  got  up.  "It's  lucky  this  is  the  nicht  the 
bank's  open,"  he  said.  "I'll  be  back  in  ten  meen- 
utes." 

"Thenk  ye,  laddie,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  and 
let  him  go  without  another  word. 

As  the  door  closed  the  man  bowed  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

Willie  placed  a  pound-note,  a  half-sovereign, 
and  three  pieces  of  silver  in  his  employer's  hand. 

"Thenk  ye,  laddie,"  said  the  painter  once 
more,  and  his  voice  shook. 

"Ye're  welcome,"  returned  the  boy,  wondering 
whether  he  should  go  or  stay. 

"Sit  doon,  Wullie." 

Willie  obeyed,  wishing  he  could  say  something 
comforting.  But  that  was  beyond  him.  He  got 
as  far  as  "Never  heed,  Maister  Ridhorn,"  and 
stuck. 

Then  the  man  spoke — in  a  jumpy  sort  of  voice. 
"When  I  got  to  Glesca  the  day,"  he  said,  "Jin- 
goes had  rose  above  two  pound.  I  got  rid  o' 


152  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

mine  at  fifty  pound  profit.  Here's  the  fifty 
pound — or  at  least  a  deposit  receipt  wi'  the 
Bank  o'  Scotland  for  the  same.  Tak'  a  look  at 
it."  He  passed  the  document  to  his  apprentice. 
"Ye'll  observe  yer  name  on  it."  He  rose  ab- 
ruptly and  went  to  the  door.  "Ye'll  maybe  find 
it  usefu'  some  day.  But  dinna  ever  try  to  mak' 
money  the  way  it  was  made.  I'm  gaun  for  a 
stroll,  Wullie.  Jist  gang  hame  when  it  suits 
ye.  We'll  ha'e  the  draughts  anither  nicht."  He 
stepped  out  into  the  darkness.  "Guid  nicht." 


"Fifty  pound !"  the  boy  panted  softly,  running 
to  tell  his  mother.  "Fifty  pound !" 

"Five  an'  thirty  shillin's,"  muttered  the  man, 
standing  by  the  sea-wall  in  the  silence  and  pri- 
vacy of  the  night,  "an'  it  was  a*  he  had.  God, 
but  it's  a  fortune!" 


IX 

HIS  OLD  ENEMY 

OF  the  few  passengers  to  disembark  from 
the  yellow-funnelled  steamer  on  a 
certain  fine  March  evening,  Mr.  Red- 
horn  was  the  last.  Apart  from  the  fact  that 
he  was  not  a  pushful  person  in  any  circum- 
stances, he  was  burdened  with  two  bulky  par- 
cels containing  rolls  of  wall-paper  purchased 
that  day  in  the  city.  Mr.  Redhorn  was  tired. 
He  had  a  moderate  headache,  the  effect  of  the 
city's  racket  plus  a  twopenny  mutton  pie  con- 
sumed in  haste  after  a  seven  hours'  fast.  His 
feet  were  very  cold — "perishin',''  as  he  would 
have  described  them.  Altogether  he  was  ready 
for  his  carpet  slippers,  easy-chair  and  fireside, 
also  a  cup  of  tea  and,  perchance,  a  dose  of  the 
Elixir. 

Therefore  he  looked  none  too  well  pleased 
when  the  piermaster,  having  received  his  penny, 
took  his  arm  and,  with  furtive  glances  in  the 
direction  of  the  village,  drew  him  into  the  little 
office,  saying:  "I've  something  to  say  to  ye, 
Joseph." 

153 


154  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Is't  important,  Tammas?" 

"It's  aboot  Danks,  the  fishmonger,"  the  pier- 
master  replied  with  much  solemnity  of  manner. 

"Oh  dear  me!"  sighed  Mr.  Redhorn  wearily. 
"I'm  no'  interrested  in  Danks  this  evenin' — even 
if  he  has  been  playin'  another  o'  his  dirty  tricks 
on  me.  I'm  no'  interrested  in  ony  human  bein', 
nor  in  onything  animal,  vegetable  or  mineral, 
excep'  Joseph  Ridhorn.  I'm  ower  wearied.  So 
I'll  bid  ye  guid  nicht,  or  adieu — whichever  ye 
prefer." 

"Haud  on,  man!"  cried  the  piermaster,  catch- 
ing him  by  the  sleeve.  "I'm  gled  to  hear  ye 
say  ye're  no'  interrested  in  Peter  Danks !"  The 
words  were  uttered  most  impressively. 

"Eh?"  Mr.  Redhorn's  expression  became 
more  alert.  "What  dae  ye  mean,  Tammas? 
There's  mair  in  yer  remark  nor  meets  the 
eye." 

"I  mean  exac'ly  what  I  say,  an'  I  hope  ye'll 
tak'  it  as  a  frien'ly  hint." 

Mr.  Redhorn  stared.    "A  frien'ly  hint?" 

"Jist  that,"  said  Thomas  a  trifle  impatiently. 
"Ye're  a  saft-hearted  sort  o'  chap,  Joseph,"  he 
went  on  mildly,  "an'  although  Danks  an'  you 
ha'e  been  enemies  as  far  back  as  I  can  mind, 
if  Danks  was  comin'  on  ye  sudden-like  for  to 
borrow  a  hunderd  pound — 

"Tits,  man !  what  are  ye  talkin'  aboot  ?    Danks 


HIS  OLD  ENEMY  155 

borrow  a  hunderd  pound?  Ye'll  see  him  ridin' 
an  elephant  first!" 

"Weel,  I  can  only  assure  ye  that  some  o'  us 
in  Fairport — I  needna  mention  names — ha'e  been 
asked  to  lend  the  sum  I've  mentioned." 

"To  Peter  Banks?"  Mr.  Redhorn  let  fall  one 
of  his  parcels. 

"Ay,  to  Peter  Banks.  .  .  .  An'  I  thought  I 
wud  jist  gi'e  ye  a  hint — " 

"But — but  Banks  is  the  solidest  man  in  Fair- 
port!" 

"So  it  has  been  supposed,"  said  the  piermas- 
ter  drily.  "Of  course,  what  I'm  tellin'  ye  is 
confeedential." 

"Oh,  I'm  as  secret  as  the  tomb,"  Mr.  Red- 
horn  returned,  ^stroking  his  nose.  "But  I'm 
stupefied.  I  canna  comprehend  it,  Tammas." 
Suddenly  he  peeped  through  the  small  window. 
"See!  Thonder's  Banks  at  his  door,  chattin*  wi' 
his  cronies;  jist  the  same  as  he's  been  daein' 
every  fine  evenin'  for  twinty  year.  I'm  thinkin' 
he's  been  takin'  a  rise  oot  o'  you  an'  the  others." 

Thomas  shook  his  head.  "Banks  there  is  daein' 
his  best  to  keep  up  appearances.  His  cronies 
ken  naething  aboot  his  affairs;  naebody  in  Fair- 
port  does,  excep'  you  an'  me  an'  twa-three  ithers. 
But  the  man's  in  a  bad  way — desperate  for  cash. 
.  .  .  Aweel,  I've  warned  ye,  Joseph,  an'  the 
subjec'  is  closed  at  ween  us." 


156  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"An*  I'm  obleeged  to  ye,  Tammas,  though  in  a 
way  yer  warnin'  's  wasted,  for  Danks  wud  never 
come  to  me — no'  if  he  was  on  the  verge  of  bank- 
ruptcy. Weel,  I'll  be  movin'  hame."  The 
painter  recovered  hold  of  his  parcel,  bade  his 
friend  goodnight,  and  left  the  office. 

In  order  to  reach  his  abode  it  was  necessary 
to  pass  by  the  fish-shop.  To  all  appearances 
Mr.  Danks  was  swelling  with  as  much  impor- 
tance as  ever,  and  his  harsh  sneering  laugh  fell 
more  than  once  on  the  painter's  ears.  Yet,  for 
the  first  time  in  many  years,  Mr.  Redhorn  was 
spared  the  mental  exertion  of  producing  a  smart 
retort  to  his  enemy's  sarcastic  personal  ramarks. 
With  a  nod  to  the  group  of  idlers,  who  were 
plainly  astonished  at  the  fishmonger's  silence, 
he  proceeded  to  his  bachelor  abode,  where  to  his 
surprise  and  gratification,  he  discovered  Willie, 
his  apprentice,  in  the  act  of  preparing  tea. 

"Wullie !"  he  cried,  "this  is  rael  kind  o'  ye." 

"I  had  a  message  for  ye  aboot  that  paper  for 
Miss  Grogan's  bedroom,"  the  boy  replied,  "an' 
I  thought  I  micht  as  weel  come  early  an'  get 
ready  yer  tea.  An'  here" — he  took  a  glass  from 
the  mantelpiece — "here's  a  dose  o'  the  Elixir. 
I  thought  ye  wud  be  the  better  o'  it  efter  yer  day 
in  Glesca." 

"Upon  ma  word,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  accept- 
ing the  dose,  though  somewhat  staggered  by  his 


HIS  OLD  ENEMY  157 

apprentice's  attention,  "I'm  fair  amazed  at  yer 
thoughtfulness,  laddie.     Here's  to  ye!" 

"Oh,  that's  a'  richt,"  said  Willie  easily.  "It's 
guid  for  ye,  an'  I  like  fine  to  see  ye  makin' 
faces." 


When  a  full  week  had  elapsed  without  any- 
thing special  happening  to  stimulate  the  gossips 
of  Fairport,  Mr.  Redhorn  began  to  doubt  the 
accuracy  of  the  piermaster's  estimate  of  the 
fishmonger's  financial  condition,  and  at  the  end 
of  three  weeks  he  decided  that  the  Danks  panic 
had  been  either  merely  temporary  or  (which  was 
far  more  likely)  an  elaborate  piece  of  "codding" 
on  that  sardonic  person's  part.  He  had  known 
Danks  for  many  years  as  the  most  close-fisted 
person  in  the  village;  he  was  aware  that  five 
years  ago  Danks  had  inherited  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand pounds;  moreover,  Danks,  like  himself, 
was  a  bachelor  without  a  dependent.  The 
painter  was  not  the  sort  of  man  who  finds  en- 
tertainment in  prying  into  and  discussing  his 
neighbours'  business;  indeed,  he  shrank  from 
revelations  of  all  kinds,  but  more  especially 
from  those  of  an  unhappy  nature.  So  he  made 
no  enquiries  and  let  the  matter  slip  from  his 
mind,  gladly  enough. 


On  the  evening  of  the  first  of  April  Mr.  Red- 
horn  sat  at  his  untidy  fireside  trying  to  darn  a 
sock.  The  atmosphere  around  him  was  redo- 
lent of  eucalyptus.  He  was  beginning  to  recover 
from  what  he  called  his  "annual  Spring  cauld 
in  the  heid,"  which  had  kept  him  indoors  for 
the  past  three  days.  As  he  was  wont  to  explain 
to  those  who  accused  him  of  malingering,  there 
were,  doubtless,  professions  for  which  a  clear 
head  was  unnecessary,  but  the  painting  trade 
was  not  one  of  them;  also,  he  was  not  going  to 
risk  his  reputation  as  a  paper-hanger  and  deco- 
rator by  sneezing  in  the  midst  of  a  delicate  op- 
eration; finally,  no  other  human  head  had  ever 
been  afflicted  with  such  a  cold  as  his — it  was 
unique  in  the  annals  of  influenza. 

Mr.  Red'horn  regarded  the  sock  in  his  hand 
with  extreme  disfavour.  "There'll  sune  be  nane 
o'  the  oreeginal  left,"  he  muttered.  "Darns, 
darns,  darns!  Oh,  for  the  moral  courage  to 
fling  it  in  the  fire !" 

He  threw  it  under  the  table  instead  and  took 
up  a  penny  novelette  with  a  coloured  frontispiece 
depicting  a  very  dark  gentleman  about  to  stab 
a  very  fair  lady  without  giving  her  time  to 
put  up  her  hair.  The  title  was  "False  yet 
True." 

Mr.  Redhorn  read  steadily  for  five  minutes, 
and  then  returned  the  novelette  to  the  shelf  at 


HIS  OLD  ENEMY  159 

the  side  of  the  fireplace.  "It's  no'  as  guid  as 
usual,"  he  reflected,  "or  else  ma  passion  for 
literature  is  failin'."  He  sighed  heavily. 

The  truth  was,  Mr.  Redhorn  was  seriously  de- 
pressed. No  doubt  his  cold,  and  perhaps  also 
the  sock,  had  contributed  to  his  gloom,  but  the 
primary  cause  was  his  apprentice.  For  Willie 
had  accepted  an  invitation  to  draughts  and  lem- 
onade for  seven-thirty  prompt,  and  it  was  now 
near  to  nine  o'clock.  An  hour  ago  Mr.  Redhorn, 
glancing  out  of  the  window,  prior  to  lowering 
the  blind,  had  observed  the  boy  in  earnest  con- 
versation with  a  damsel  of  about  his  own  age, 
fifteen,  and  not  lacking  in  personal  charms. 

"H'm!  I  suppose  it  had  to  come  suner  or 
later,"  the  painter  drearily  soliloquised,  as  the 
little  scene  now  recurred  to  him.  "In  the  Spring, 
accordin'  to  the  poet  Byron,  a  young  man's  fancy 
turns  to  thoughts  o'  love.  Aweel,  it's  better 
nor  bettin'  on  horses,  onyway.  An'  I  dare  say 
it's  maybe  mair  excitin'  nor  draughts.  Ay, 
youth's  a  fine  thing,  an'  even  auld  age  has  been 
said  to  ha'e  its  beauties.  But  middle-age,  wi'  a 
cauld  in  the  heid  an'  a  tendency  to  dyspeepsia, 
no'  to  mention  chilblains,  lumpy  socks  an'  nae 
comp'ny — middle-age,  I  declare,  is —  Come  in, 
come  in !  The  door's  no'  bolted." 

Willie  entered,  panting,  his  eyes  shining. 

"Sit  doon,  laddie,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  with  less 


160  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

cordiality  of  tone  than  the  apprentice  was  ac- 
customed to. 

"I  couldna  come  ony  earlier,"  Willie  gasped, 
seating  himself.  "I've  been  that  busy  gatherin' 
news.  I've  got  some  rare  news  for  ye." 

"I  preshume,"  the  painter  remarked  ironically, 
"ye  ha'e  deigned  to  appear  in  order  to  inform  me 
o'  yer  approachin'  nuptials." 

"I  dinna  ken  what  ye're  gassin' — speakin' 
aboot,"  returned  Willie.  "I  cam'  to  tell  ye  that 
Danks  is  burst." 

"Eh?— what's  that?" 

"I'm  sayin',  Danks  is  burst." 

Mr.  Redhorn  recovered  himself.  "Tits,  lad- 
die! that's  an  auld  canary!  Wha  has  been  cod- 
din'  ye?"  he  coolly  enquired. 

"There's  nae  coddin'  aboot  it,"  was  the  in- 
dignant reply.  "It's  the  solemn  truth.  It's  a' 
through  Fairport.  If  ye  hadna  had  the  cauld 
in  yer  nose  ye  wud  ha'e  heard  aboot  it  afore 
noo." 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head.  "Na,  na,  Wullie. 
Ye've  been  the  victim  o'  a  rumour  which  is  en- 
tirely devoid  o'  foondation.  Danks  is  no'  the 
sort  to  burst." 

"But  he  is  burst— as  sure  as  ye're  sittin'  there," 
the  boy  asserted.  "I  heard  it  first  frae  Jessie 
Forrest,  when  I  was  comin'  to  see  ye,  an'  then 
I  went  an'  listened  to  different  folk  to  see  what 


HIS  OLD  ENEMY  161 

I  could  hear.  They  were  a'  speakin'  aboot  Danks. 
He's  been  gettin'  the  lend  o'  money,  an'  he 
canna  pay  it  back,  an' — " 

"That'll  dae,  laddie."  Mr.  Redhorn  rose.  "I'll 
return  in  twa  meenutes.  Ye'll  find  a  bottle  o' 
leemonade  in  the  press,"  he  said,  and  hurrying 
to  the  door,  snatched  his  cap  from  a  peg  and  left 
the  house. 

The  piermaster's  abode  was  almost  next  door, 
and  the  piermaster  was  at  home. 

"Ay,  it's  true,"  he  said  in  answer  to  the  paint- 
er's question.  "Ye  wouldna  believe  me  afore, 
Joseph,  but  I  was  richt.  Danks  has  been  specu- 
latin'  in  secret  for  years  an'  lossin'  a'  he  made 
at  his  business  an'  a  heap  mair  besides.  He's 
been  borrowin'  frae  moneylenders,  an'  he's  had 
a  bill  dishonoured.  I  was  tell't  the  day  that  his 
name  is  in  this  week's  black  list — " 

"What?  The  Black  List— that  vilest  publica- 
tion o'  modern  ceevilization !" 

"The  same,"  said  Thomas.  "An'  I  ken  for  a 
fac'  that  if  Danks  canna  produce  twa  hunderd 
pound  by  the  morn's  mornin',  he's  a  done  man. 
An*  he's  that  already,  for  wha's  gaun  to  trust 
him  wi'  twa  hunderd  pound?  No'  me,  nor  you 
either,  I'm  thinkin' !" 

A  short  pause,  and  Mr.  Redhorn  enquired: 
"Ha'e  ye  seen  him  the  nicht?" 

"No*  to  speak  to.    I  gaed  up  to  the  shop  wi' 


162  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

the  intention  o'  speakin',  but  the  door  was  shut, 
an'  when  I  keeked  through  the  wee  hole  in  the 
shutters  I  seen  him  sittin'  there  wi'  his  heid  in 
his  han's — an'  so  I  turned  an'  cam'  awa'.  God! 
I  was  kin'  o'  vexed  for  the  man,  though  I  never 
liked  him." 

"Sittin'  there,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn  musingly, 
"surrounded  by  his  faithful  but  helpless  fish — 
criftens!  it's  a  sad  job." 

"It  is ;  but  he's  only  got  hissel'  to  blame.  He 
canna  expec'  us  to  help  him  noo.  There's  nae- 
body  in  Fairport  wi'  siller  to  put  in  a  sinkin' 
ship." 

"True,  Tammas,  true,"  the  painter  slowly  ad- 
mitted. "Weel,  I'll  awa'  back  to—" 

"He  hasna  been  at  you — has  he?"  suddenly 
asked  the  piermaster. 

"Na,  na.  He  kens  better  nor  to  come  to  me." 
And  Mr.  Redhorn  retreated  to  his  own  abode. 

"Wullie,"  he  said  on  entering,  "I  owe  ye  an 
apology,  for  it  appears  that  yer  report  was  only 
too  true."  With  a  sigh  he  sank  into  his  chair. 

Willie  stared  at  him  over  his  tumbler  of  lemon- 
ade. "Are  ye  no'  pleased,  Maister  Redhorn?" 

"Pleased!     What  for  wud  I  be  pleased?" 

"The  man's  burst!" 

"Laddie,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  heavily,  "the 
spectacle  o'  a  human  bein'  feenancially  exploded 


HIS  OLD  ENEMY  163 

is  mair  excruciatin'  to  ma  feelin's  than  onything 
in  Shakespeare  or  'East  Lynne'." 

"But— but  ye  hate  the  man." 

"Even  hatred  has  its  leemits.  Ye  wouldna 
hit  a  man  when  he  was  doon,  wud  ye,  Wullie?" 

"Wha  said  I  wud?  But  I  wudna  be  sorry 
for  him,  if  I  hated  him,  an'  if  he  had  played  me 
dirty  tricks." 

"An'  if  ye  wudna  'hit  him,  what  wud  ye  dae  ?" 

"Let  him  lie." 

Mr.  Redhorn  sighed  and  stroked  his  nose. 
"Onybody  could  dae  that,"  he  said  at  last. 

Willie  regarded  his  master  enquiringly. 
"What  wud  you  dae?" 

"Dear  knows.  .  .  .  But  it  maun  be  an  awfu' 
thing  to  ha'e  to  pay  in  every  mortal  way — • 
excep'  in  cash.  Ye're  ower  young  to  under stan' 
what  I  mean,  Wullie." 

"I  understan'  fine  what  ye're  drivin'  at.  Ye 
mean  that  Danks'll  ha'e  to  gi'e  up  his  shop  an* 
everything.  Serves  him  richt!" 

"Come,  come,  laddie!  what  has  Danks  ever 
done  to  you?" 

"He's  tried  to  mak'  mischief  atween  you  an' 
me.  He's—" 

"That's  true  enough.  But,  ye  see,  he  was 
annoyed  at  me  for  takin'  you  on  as  apprentice 
instead  o'  his  nephew.  I  daresay  he's  forgotten 
a'  aboot  that  by  noo." 


164  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"He's  tried  to  mak'  a  cod  o'  you  heaps  o' 
times,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

"I've  aye  been  able  to  defend  masel'.  Wi'oot 
undue  immodesty,  I  think  I  may  say  I've  aye 
managed  to  confound  him  suner  or  later.  Ye 
can  conseeder  us  quits,  Danks  an'  me." 

"I  believe  ye're  stickin'  up  for  the  man!" 
cried  Willie.  "I  didna  think  ye  was  sae  saft." 

"Aw!"  murmured  the  painter,  and  fell  to 
stroking  his  nose  again. 

"I  believe,"  the  boy  pursued  with  sudden  con- 
viction, "I  believe  ye  wud  try  to  gi'e  Danks  a 
leg  up,  if  ye  wasna  afraid." 

"Afraid!  Afraid  o'  what?"  demanded  Mr. 
Redhorn. 

The  boy  hesitated,  looking  uneasy.  "Afraid  o' 
what  the  folk  wud  say,"  he  mumbled. 

Mr.  Redhorn  drew  a  long  breath,  expelled  it, 
and  said :  "By  Jupiter,  ye've  hit  the  nail  on  the 
heid !"  Putting  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  he  lay 
back  in  his  chair. 

The  long  silence  that  followed  was  broken 
by  Willie. 

"Maister  Ridhorn,  I — I  didna  mean  to  vex 
ye." 

"Ye  didna  vex  me.  .  .  .  But  what  wud  you 
say  if  I  was  to  try  to  gi'e  Danks  a  leg  up,  as 
ye  expressed  it?"  The  painter  looked  through 
his  fingers  at  his  apprentice. 


HIS  OLD  ENEMY  165 

The  latter  shook  his  'head  and  shut  his  mouth 
as  much  as  to  signify  that  he  was  not  going  to 
commit  himself  this  time. 

"Wud  ye  say  I  was  daft?" 

"N— no'  exac'ly." 

"Wud  ye  say  I  was  saft?" 

"Something  like  that." 

"I  suppose  that's  what  a'  the  folk  wud  say?" 

Willie  nodded  reluctantly. 

"Oh,  criftens!"  groaned  the  painter,  "what  a 
terrify  in'  thing  is  public  opeenion,  an'  yet  it's 
no'  once  a  week  that  it's  worth  a  damn!  .  .  . 
I  beg  yer  pardon,  laddie,  for  usin'  a  bad  word." 

"I'm  no'  heedin',"  said  Willie  reassuringly. 
"Maybe  it  helps  ye." 

Mr.  Redhorn  ignored  the  remark.  "Wullie," 
be  bitterly  declared,  "I'm  a  poltroon!" 

"What's  that?" 

"A  poltroon  is  a  species  o'  coward." 

"Oh,  I  thought  it  was  a  kin'  o'  beast — a  sort 
o'  monkey.  But  what  for  are  ye  callin'  yersel' 
names,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

"Because  I  ha'ena  the  moral  courage  to  gi'e 
Danks  a  leg  up." 

"I  suppose  ye  wud  never  get  yer  money  back." 

"That's  no'  precisely  the  p'int,"  said  the 
painter,  a  trifle  shortly. 

"Is't  no?" 

"I  dinna  mean  to  suggest  that  I'm  keen  on 


166  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

lossin'  money — quite  the  obverse;  but  I  would 
rayther  loss  money  nor  ha'e  folk  think  I  had 
lost  it.  Ye  see?" 

Willie  prevented  a  yawn  with  a  timely  gulp  of 
lemonade.  "I  dinna  see  the  sense  in  that,"  he 
remarked,  wiping  his  lips  on  his  sleeve.  "But 
ye  could  easy  loss  money  wi'oot  folk  kennin' 
onything  aboot  it." 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head.  "There's  nae 
secret  safe  frae  the  Almighty  an'  the  public  of 
Fairport.  Suner  or  later  they  wud  find  oot 
that  I  had  gi'ed  Danks  a  leg  up." 

"But  ye're  no'  really  gaun  to  gi'e  him  a  leg 
up?" 

The  painter  blushed,  rose  and  took  a  cigar- 
ette from  a  packet  on  the  mantelpiece.  He  lit 
it  with  deliberation. 

On  recovering  from  a  severe  fit  of  choking 
and  coughing  he  said:  "Wullie,  if  you  was 
standin'  on  the  pier  thonder,  an'  yer  worst  enemy 
fell  into  the  water,  wud  ye  no'  throw  him  a  rope  ? 
.  .  .  Of  course  ye  wud!  If  necessary,  ye  wud 
even  plunge  in  to  the  rescue.  Ye  wud  risk  yer 
life—" 

"Wud  I?" 

"We'll  say  ye  wud,  for  the  sake  of  argument." 
Mr.  Redhorn's  tone  was  a  little  impatient.  "An* 
then,  when  ye  had  saved  yer  worst  enemy,  the 
public  wud  cry  'hurray !'  an'  ca'  ye  a  noble  char- 


HIS  OLD  ENEMY  167 

acter.  .  .  .  But,  supposin'  yer  worst  enemy 
was  strugglin'  in  the  ocean  o'  feenancial  deefi- 
culties,  an'  ye  threw  him  yer  purse — " 

"I  never  had  a  purse."  There  was  no  stop- 
ping the  yawn  this  time.  "An'  what  if  it  missed 
him?" 

"Oh,  me!"  cried  the  painter,  "d'ye  no'  ken 
a  metaphor  when  ye  hear  it?"  He  glanced  at 
the  clock.  "Tits!  it's  time  ye  was  awa'  hame 
to  yer  bed.  Yer  mither'll  be  wonderin'  what's 
keepin'  ye.  Awa'  wi'  ye!" 

"I  didna'  mean  to  offend  ye,"  said  the  boy, 
rising  and  laying  the  empty  tumbler  on  the  table. 

"Ye  didna  offend  me.  .  .  .  But  ye're  ower 
young  to  appreciate  ma  present  painful  posee- 
tion,  an'  so — " 

"But— but— " 

"Gang!" 

Confused  and  crestfallen,  Willie  took  up  his 
cap  and  obeyed. 

Mr.  Redhorn  threw  the  cigarette  into  the  fire 
and  himself  into  the  easy-chair. 

"I  needna  ha'e  lost  ma  temper,"  he  reflected, 
presently.  "I  shouldna  'ha'e  expected  him  to 
grasp  ma  physicological  (  ?psychological)  obser- 
vations. I  couldna  ha'e  grasped  them  masel'  at 
his  age.  But  oh  crif tens !  what  am  I  to  dae  ? 
Public  opeenion.  ..." 


i68  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

A  shy  tapping  at  the  door  startled  him.  He 
rose,  unsteady  and  rather  pale.  Was  it  Danks 
come  to  him  as  a  last  desperate  resource?  He 
feared  yet  hoped  it  was. 

But  when  he  had  opened  the  door — behold! 
Willie  once  more. 

"Wh — what  is  it,  laddie?"  he  stammered. 

"I  thought  ye  wud  maybe  like  to  hear  aboot 
Danks." 

"What  aboot  him  noo?" 

"The  lamp  was  burnin'  in  the  shop,  so  I  had 
a  squint  through  the  hole  in  the  shutter.  Danks 
was  sittin'  at  the  counter — " 

"Still?  .    .    .  What  was  he  daein'?  Writin'?" 

"Na;  he  was  jist  daein'  naething." 

"What  was  he  lookin'  like?" 

"I  couldna  see  his  face.  He  had  his  arms  on 
the  coonter,  an'  his  face  was  doon  on  them. 
Maybe  he  was  sleepin'." 

"Maybe,"  said  the  painter  with  melancholy 
irony.  "I  daresay  he's  been  sleepin'  extra  soun' 
recently!  ...  Is  that  a*  ye've  got  to  tell  me, 
laddie?" 

"Ay;  excep'  ..." 

"Excep'  what?" 

"He — he  looked  queer — as  if  he  had  got — 
wee'er." 

"Wee — er !   Hoo  dae  ye  mean,  Wullie  ?" 

"Weel,  I  used  to  think  he  was  a  great  big  man, 


HIS  OLD  ENEMY  169 

an'  noo  he  looks  as  if  he  had — jist  as  if  he  had 
got — burst." 

"God!"  said  the  painter  under  his  breath, 
"surely  he  hasna.  .  .  .  Laddie,  did  ye  see  him 
move?" 

"Whiles  he  gi'ed  a  bit  jerk." 

"The  Lord  be  thankit!"  Mr.  Redhorn  took 
the  puzzled  apprentice  by  the  arm.  "Come  in- 
side for.  a  meenute.  I'll  apologise  to  yer  mither 
the  morn." 

While  Willie  stood  blinking  his  employer 
found  writing  materials  and  indited  the  follow- 
ing note — 

"Fairport, 
April   i. 

I  can  lend  you  £200  payable  back  when  you 
can. 

J.  Redhorn." 

"Wullie,"  he  said,  softly  thumping  the  flap  of 
the  envelope,  "ye  behold  me  riskin'  ma  reputa- 
tion as  a  sober  man  o'  business.  But  for  the 
moment  I  can  honestly  declare  I  dinna  care  that" 
— he  smote  the  table — "for  public  opeenion!" 

"Ye  near  upset  the  ink-pot." 

"If  I  had  it  wud  ha'e  made  nae  difference  to 
ma  statement."  Mr.  Redhorn  arose,  and  placed 
the  letter  in  the  boy's  hand.  "Carry  that  to 
Peter  Danks.  Chap  at  the  door  till  he  opens. 
See  that  he  reads  the  enclosed  communication  at 
once.  Then  report  to  me." 


i;o  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"Are  ye  gi'ein'  him  a  leg  up,  efter  a'?" 
"March!"  commanded  the  painter. 
Left  to  himself   he   reseated   himself  at  'the 
table,  his  head  between  his  hands.    The  supreme 
moment  of  exaltation  had  passed,  yet  he  did 
not  regret  what  he  had  done. 


"Ye've  been  a  lang  time,  laddie." 

"It  was  a  lang  time  afore  he  opened  the  door." 

"Ye  delivered  the  letter?" 

"Ay ;  I  think  he  thought  it  was  an  accoont  for 
pentin';  so  I  tell't  him  it  wasna." 

"An'  then?" 

"He  opened  it." 

Mr.  Redhorn's  countenance  was  working  in  a 
curious  fashion.  "What  did  he  say?"  came  the 
question,  shakily. 

"Naething." 

"Naething?" 

"He  jist  made  faces  an'  waved  me  oot  o'  the 
shop." 

"Made— faces?" 

"Ay,"  said  the  boy,  awkwardly. 

A  short  pause. 

"What  sort  o'  faces,  Wullie?" 

"Same  as  you're  m — makin'." 

"Eh?" 

But  Willie  turned  and  fled,  for  he  realized 
that  he  was  making  faces,  too. 


AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH 

WITH  the  assistance  of  a  stout  walking- 
stick,  Mr.  Redhorn  hobbled  painfully 
across  the  floor,  and  with  sundry 
grunts  deposited  himself  in  the  easy-chair  by  the 
cold  hearth.  With  additional  and  more  forcible 
grunts  he  slowly  lifted  his  right  leg  to  the  sup- 
port afforded  by  a  derelict  packing-case  branded 
with  the  name  of  a  famous  champagne  firm. 
Having  secured  comparative  ease,  he  looked  up 
at  the  clock,  muttered :  "Efter  ten !  What  keeps 
the  wumman?"  and  dropped  his  gaze  to  the 
grate  full  of  last  night's  ashes.  He  poked  the 
ashes,  in  the  absurd  hope  that  a  spark  might 
have  survived. 

A  tap  at  the  door  he  answered  with  a  curt 
"Come  in!"  and  presented  a  decidedly  cross 
countenance  for  the  reception  of  Mrs.  Mc- 
Fadyen,  the  neighbor  to  whom,  for  twenty  years, 
he  had  paid  a  weekly  sum  for  services  which 
she  described  as  "cleanin',  tidyin',  an'  reddin' 
up  generally." 

But  it  was  not  Mrs.  McFadyen  who  entered. 
171 


i;2  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

Over  the  threshold"  stepped  briskly  a  girl  of 
fifteen  or  thereabouts.  She  wore  a  pink  blouse, 
faded  but  fresh-looking,  and  an  apron  of  sack- 
cloth covering  her  short,  dark  skirt.  Her  abun- 
dant black  hair  was  tied  with  a  scrap  of  pink 
ribbon  in  a  trim  pigtail.  She  possessed  a  prettily 
browned  complexion,  and  she  carried  herself 
with  the  confidence  of  a  reigning  beauty. 

"Guid  mornin'!"  she  said  calmly,  and  closed 
the  door. 

"Mornin'!"  replied  the  painter.  "If  it's  a  job 
I'm  wanted  for,  I'm  sorry  I'm  no'  able.  Wha 
sent  ye,  lassie?" 

"Mistress  McFadyen — at  least,  she  didna 
exac'ly  send  me,  but  she  said  I  could  come  if  I 
liked.  I'm  Agnes  Eraser." 

"I  ken  wha  ye  are  weel  enough.  But  what's 
up  wi'  Mistress  McFadyen?" 

"She's  awa'  to  Glesca."  The  girl  moved  for- 
ward. "Ha'e  ye  no'  had  ony  breakfast?"  she 
inquired,  nodding  her  head  at  the  fireplace. 

"I  was  waitin'  fer  her.  As  ye  see,  I'm  kin' 
o'  helpless.  Fell  off  a  ladder  yesterday.  Micht 
ha'e  had  mair  sense  at  ma  time  o'  life.  The 
doctor  says — " 

"Ay,  I  ken  aboot  that.  But  first  I'll  get  the 
fire  started,  an'  then  I'll  explain  aboot  Mistress 
McFadyen.  Where  dae  ye  keep  the  sticks?"  She 
was  rolling  up  her  sleeves  as  she  spoke. 


AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH      173 

Mr.  Redhorn  told  her. 

"But  I  want  to  ken  hoo  ye  happen  to  be  here," 
he  began. 

"Patience,  patience,"  she  returned  mildly,  and 
went  to  work. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  got  the  fire  going 
and  the  kettle  in  position  that  she  explained  her 
presence,  and  she  did  so  while  washing  her  hands 
at  the  sink. 

"Mistress  McFadyen  got  word  this  mornin* 
that  an  auld  auntie  o'  hers  in  Glesca  was  badly — 
no'  expected  to  recover,  an'  so  on." 

"I'm  vexed  to  hear  that,"  the  painter  remarked, 
with  that  very  human  sympathy  which  comes 
none  the  less  freely  along  with  a  sense  of  per- 
sonal comfort. 

"Oh,  ye  needna  be  vexed  for  her !  She's  ex- 
pectin'  to  be  left  a  heap  o'  siller — fully  a  thoosan' 
pound.  I  happened  to  be  on  the  pier  when  she 
was  waitin'  for  the  boat,  an'  I  seen  she  was  ter- 
rible excited.  It  was  easy  seen  she  had  forgot 
aboot  everything  else  but  the  siller.  So  jist 
when  the  boat  was  comin'  to  the  pier,  I  gangs 
up  to  her  an'  says,  says  I:  'What  aboot  the 
penter  an'  'his  game  leg?'  Ye  should  ha'e  seen 
her  face  then,  Maister  Ridhorn! 

"  'Mercy  me !'  she  cried,  'if  I  ha'ena  been  an* 
clean  forgot  a'  aboot  him!  \Veel,  he'll  jist  ha'e 
to  manage  for  hisselV 


174  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"I  thought  she  had  a  queer  neck  on  her  to 
speak  that  way  efter  a'  the  cash  she's  had  oot 
o*  you,  so  I  says  to  her,  says  I :  'If  ye'll  excuse 
me,  Mistress  McFadyen,  for  speakin'  ma  mind, 
ye  micht  ha'e  had  the  decency  to  get  somebody 
to  tak'  yer  place,  for  it's  no'  fair  to  leave  an' 
auld  man  wi'  a  game  leg  to  fend  for  hissel', 
espaycially  as — ' '; 

"I'm  no'  that  auld,  lassie,"  Mr.  Redhorn  in- 
terrupted with  some  irritation. 

"Tits,  man!  I  was  jist  rubbin'  it  in  to  mak' 
her  feel  uncomfortable.  Of  course  ye're  no' 
an  auld  man  really,  though  ye're  nae  chicken, 
either."  Having  dried  her  hands,  Agnes  made 
an  assault  on  a  cupboard.  "The  fire'll  no'  mak' 
toast  for  ages.  Wud  ye  like  me  to  rin  oot  for 
rolls,,  or  will  breid  an'  butter  an'  a  biled  egg 
content  ye?" 

"That'll  dae  fine,  lassie." 

"Ma  name's  Agnes,  whiles  Aggie.  Please 
yersel'.  It's  time  ye  had  a  clean  table-cloth." 

Mr.  Redhorn  blushed. 

"There's  a  clean  yin  some  place,  but — oh, 
never  heed  it  the  noo.  What  did  Mistress  Mc- 
Fadyen say?" 

"She  tell't  me  to  mind  ma  ain  business.  Oh, 
she  was  gey  angry.  But  I  tell't  her  to  keep  'her 
hair  on,  an*  asked  her  if  she  wud  gi'e  me  the  job. 
At  that  she  looked  roun'  to  see  if  there  was 


AN  INTRUSION.QF_YOUTH       175 

naebody  else  she  could  gi'e  the  job  to,  but  seem- 
in'ly  there  wasna,  an'  by  this  time  the  boat  was 
at  the  pier.  So  she  said,  sulky-like,  that  I  could 
dae  the  work  if  I  wanted,  an'  she  wud  pay  me 
hauf  what  she  got  frae  you.  I  was  that  angry 
that  when  she  was  crossin'  the  gangway,  I  cried 
efter  her:  'Yer  money  perish  with  ye!' — which 
was  the  text  last  Sabbath.  Some  o'  the  folk 
laughed,  an'  she  got  a  rid  face,  but  the  boat 
started  afore  she  was  ready  wi'  ony  back-chat, 
an' — weel,  that's  ma  story  ended!  Dae  ye  like 
yer  egg  saf t  or  hard,  Maister  Ridhorn  ?" 

"Saft.  .  .  .  I'm  sure  I'm  greatly  obleeged  to 
ye  for  thinkin'  aboot  me  in  ma  helpless  condee- 
tion,  A — Agnes,"  Mr.  Redhorn  said  diffidently, 
"but  I  could  wish  ye  hadna  been  sae  severe  on 
Mistress  McFadyen,  though  I  confess  she  had 
a  fair  impiddence  to  offer  ye  but  hauf  her — 
'her  salary.  But  I'll  put  that  richt  for  ye." 
"Maister  Ridhorn!" 

"Eh?  What  is  it,  lassie — I  mean  Agnes?" 
"I  didna  come  here  for  money."  This  was 
uttered  with  the  utmost  haughtiness  of  tone  and 
manner.  "Besides" — with  a  sudden  descent  to 
mildness — "ma  brither  said,  if  I  took  money  frae 
you,  he  wud  break  ma  neck." 

"Yer  brither?     What  has  he  to  dae  wi'  it?" 
"Ma  brither  Peter.    It  was  him  ye  got  the  job 
in  the  ileworks  in  Glesca.     He's  hame  for  his 
holiday." 


176  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"But  bless  me,  that  was  naething  to  dae  for 
the  lad.  He  was  welcome,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn, 
who  was  always  sadly  embarrassed  by  anything 
suggestive  of  gratitude.  "Did  ye  consult  yer 
fayther  aboot  comin'  here?" 

Agnes,  cutting  bread,  nodded. 

"And  what  did  he  say  ?" 

"Said  I  was  to  dae  ma  best  for  ye,  an'  behave 
masel'.  Hoo  mony  slices  can  ye  shift?" 

"Aw,  a  slice'll  dae,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  with 
a  glance  at  the  slab  now  being  buttered.  "I'm 
no'  extra  hungry  this  mornin'.  I — I'm  feelin' 
kin'  o'  overwhelmed  wi'  yer  kindness.  If  ma 
apprentice,  Wullie,  hadna  been  awa'  for  his  holi- 
day, I  dare  say  he  wud  ha'e  been  helpin'  me." 

"I  dare  say  he  wud  try,  but  I  wud  like  to  see 
his  notion  o'  puttin'  a  hoose  in  order." 

"But  you're  no'  gaun  to  dae  that  ?  The  place 
can  stan'  till  Mistress  McFadyen  comes  back. 
It's  no'  what  ye  micht  term  the  acme  o'  tidiness 
— it  never  is ;  but  at  ma  time  o'  life  a  man  canna 
be  ower  parteec'lar — espaycially  when  he's  a 
bachelor." 

With  a  swift  survey  of  the  room,  Agnes  said: 
"I  wonder  hoo  ye  can  thole  it." 

"Thole  what,  A— Agnes?" 

"Dae  ye  like  yer  tea  strong?" 

"Jist  middlin'.     But  what—" 

"Oh,  we'll  no'  speak  aboot  disagreeables  till 
ye've  had  yer  breakfast." 


AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH       177 

Presently  she  brought  the  table  to  his  side, 
and  proceeded  to  serve  the  modest  meal. 

"Does  Mistress  McFadyen  cook  for  ye?"  she 
inquired. 

"Na,  na;  I've  aye  done  that  for  masel'.  She 
made  me  a  cup  o'  tea  last  nicht,  efter  the  doctor 
had  left  me,  but  that  was  the  first  time.  I  man- 
age fine  masel',  as  a  rule." 

"I'm  thinkin'  it's  an  awfu'  life  ye  lead,"  re- 
marked Agnes.  "I  never  could  understan'  what 
a  girl  wants  to  get  married  for,  but  I  see  noo 
what  mak's  a  man  keen  on  it.  Dae  ye  live  on 
tinned  things?" 

"No'  exclusively,"  replied  Mr.  Redhorn;  "but 
I  confess  tinned  things  is  handy  for  a  man  in 
ma  poseetion.  My!  ye've  made  this  egg  rale 
nice,  A — Agnes!  I  ha'ena  tasted  as  nice  a  egg 
since  ma  mither  biled  me  yin,  thirty  year  back." 

After  a  glance  of  suspicion,  Agnes  permitted 
herself  to  look  gratified. 

"I  wonder  what  ye  wud  like  for  yer  dinner?" 
she  said  tentatively.  "I  can  cook  onything  as 
long  as  it's  no'  ower  fancy." 

"A  chop  ?"  suggested  the  painter,  off  his  guard. 
Within  the  moment,  however,  he  was  protesting 
that  he  could  not  allow  her  to  do  anything  fur- 
ther for  him. 

She  listened  patiently,  cheerfully,  as  a  mother 
might  listen  to  a  child's  serious  nonsense,  and 
said: 


178  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"It'll  be  costin'  ye  something,  that  leg  o' 
yours." 

"  'Deed  is  it !  It'll  cost  me  a  fortnight's  trade," 
he  returned  ruefully. 

"An'  if  ye  dinna  rest  it,  it'll  cost  ye  mair. 
Eh?" 

"Ay;  the  doctor  says  it's  got  to  be  rested." 

"So  ye're  no'  likely  to  jump  up  an'  chase  me 
wi'  yer  big  stick?" 

For  the  first  time  that  morning  Mr.  Redhorn 
smiled. 

"That's  no'  an  operation  I'm  likely  to  execute 
in  the  meantime." 

"Then  I'm  safe,"  she  smiled  back.  "Mair 
tea?" 

"Thenk  ye.    I  ha'ena  had  tea  like  this  since — " 

"Aw  whisht,  Maister  Ridhorn !"  She  laughed 
and  changed  the  subject.  "Is  there  ony  meddi- 
cine  ye've  got  to  tak  for  yer  leg?" 

He  hesitated. 

"No'  exac'ly  for  ma  leg.  But,  if  ye'v£  nae 
objections,  I  could  dae  wi'  a  dose  frae  that  bottle 
on  the  mantelpiece." 

"  'Dyspepsia  Elixir,' "  said  Agnes,  reading  the 
label. 

"Jist  that.  I — I  usually  tak'  it  as  an  antidote 
efter  I've  enjoyed  an  egg.  Ye  see,  I  like  eggs 
better  nor  eggs  like  me." 

"I  see,"  said  the  girl  solemnly. 

Later  she  administered  the  dose,  gravely  re- 


AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH       179 

marking:  "I  suppose,  Maister  Rid'horn,  ye 
ha'ena  tasted  sich  nice  meddicine  since  yer  mither 
gi'ed  ye  a  dose,  fifty  year  back." 

"Ye're  a  treat,  lassie !"  he  cried,  quaking  until 
a  twinge  of  his  leg  changed  the  chuckle  to  a 
groan. 

After  she  had  cleared  the  table  and  washed 
up,  and  made  him  as  comfortable  as  she  could 
with  the  means  at  command,  she  went  out  to 
do  the  necessary  marketing,  while  Mr.  Redhorn 
smoked  a  cigarette  of  the  worst  possible  quality 
and  meditated  on  the  pleasantness  that  had  so 
unexpectedly  befallen  him. 

"My,  but  youth's  a  bonny  thing,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "There's  something  aboot  a  young  fe- 
male's kindness  that's  different  frae  a'  ither 
human  kindnesses.  'Deed,  it's  worth  ha'ein  a 
game  leg  for — nearly." 

On  her  return  Agnes  proceeded  to  tidy  up, 
which  is  a  mild  way  of  putting  it,  since  she  began 
with  a  general  upheaval. 

"Here,  stop  it!"  exclaimed  the  painter.  "I 
canna  let  ye  kill  yersel'.  It's  no'  the  Spring, 
onyway !" 

"It  hasna  been  the  Spring  in  this  hoose  for 
mony  a  year,"  she  retorted.  "When  was  the 
floor  scrubbed  last?" 

"Dear  knows.  Ye  see,  Pm  aye  at  my  work 
when  Mistress  McFadyen  comes." 


180  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"It's  mair  nor  she  is,"  muttered  Agnes.  "It's 
ower  late  to  begin  noo,  but  I'll  get  it  scrubbed 
first  thing  the  morn's  mornin'." 

"Ye'll  dae  naething  o'  the  sort!" 

"Weel,  weel,"  she  said  soothingly,  advancing 
to  the  hearth,  "we'll  no'  speak  aboot  it  the  noo." 
From  the  mantelshelf  she  began  to  remove  the 
articles  which  had  their  places  there — a  small 
tea-caddy,  two  damaged  china  ornaments,  a 
packet  of  cigarettes,  the  Elixir,  and  so  forth. 
"There's  an  inch  o'  dirt  here,"  she  declared  with 
a  grimace.  "I  wonder  when  Mistress  McFad- 
yen  cleaned  it  ?  No'  this  year,  I'll  be  boun' !"  She 
turned  to  the  invalid.  "What  dae  ye  say  to 
gi'ein'  her  the  sack  when  she  comes  back?" 

Mr.  Redhorn  sighed.  In  his  heart  he  knew 
that  he  had  been  wanting  to  give  her  the  sack 
these  nineteen  years.  But  now  he  shook  his 
head. 

"I  doobt  I  couldna  dae  that.  Ye  see,  she's  a 
widow — " 

"It's  nae  wonder  she's  that!  Killed  her  man 
wi'  dirt,  I  suppose." 

"Whisht,  lassie — Agnes,"  the  painter  said  re- 
provingly, with  a  cough  to  cover  the  chuckle. 
"Besides,  I've  a  notion  that  she  needs  her  salary, 
sich  as  it  is." 

"But  if  her  auld  auntie  leaves  her  a  thoosan' 
pound — Eh  ?" 


AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH       181 

"Criftens!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Redhorn.  "That's 
a  happy  thought!  At  least  it  alters  the  com- 
plexion o'  the  seetuation  generally.  If  she  was 
in'heritin'  a  sum  like  that,  she  wudna  be  wantin' 
to  keep  her  job  here.  In  which  case — "  He 
halted;  his  animation  departed  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  come.  He  glanced  up  at  Agnes,  but  she 
was  apparently  absorbed  in  contemplating  the 
dirt  on  the  mantelshelf. 

Presently  Agnes  glanced  down  at  him,  but  he 
was  staring  gloomily  at  the  fire.  She  gave  a  tiny 
cough;  he  looked  up.  Their  eyes  met  for  the 
fraction  of  a  second.  Then  Mr.  Redhorn 
averted  his  hastily,  as  one  who  harbours  a  guilty 
secret. 

Agnes  went  over  to  the  sink  and  returned  with 
a  wet  cloth.  To  do  her  justice,  she  had  entered 
the  painter's  abode  that  morning  without  a  single 
ulterior  motive.  On  the  impulse  she  had  deter- 
mined to  do  the  man  who  had  helped  her  brother 
a  kindly  turn — simply  that  and  nothing  more. 
And  she  had  started  the  good  work  with  ad- 
mirable singleness  of  mind.  But,  somehow, 
within  an  hour  complications  set  in.  Agnes  was 
one  of  a  large  family,  and  she  had  three  elder 
sisters.  There  was  practically  nothing  for  her 
to  do  at  home ;  there  was  no  opening  for  a  young 
girl  in  Fairport,  and  it  would  be  years  before 
her  parents  would  consent  to  her  taking  a  situa- 


182  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

tion  in  the  city.  In  the  circumstances,  the  post 
at  present  held  by  Mrs.  McFadyen  began  to 
appear  desirable. 

"I  never  seen  sich  a  muck,"  she  said,  exhibit- 
ing the  cloth,  to  which  a  black  paste  adhered. 
"Did  you?" 

Reluctantly  Mr.  Redhorn  examined  it.  "It 
seems  as  if  she  had  overlooked  the  mantlepiece," 
he  slowly  remarked,  swaying  betwixt  inclination 
and  loyalty.  "She's  no'  as  young  as  she  was, 
puir  body,"  he  added,  with  an  effort.  "Was  it 
a  thoosan'  pound,  ye  said  she  was  expectin'  frae 
her  expirin'  relative?" 

"No'  a  penny  less." 

Mr.  Redhorn  stroked  his  nose  and  smoothed 
his  hair  ere  he  suggested  the  possibility  of  the 
old  lady's  recovery. 

Agnes  made  it  plain  that  she  could  offer  no 
hope. 

"The  message  said  she  was  sinkin'  fast;  an', 
onyway,  Mistress  McFadyen  wudna  ha'e  gaed 
to  Glesca  on  chance — twa  shillin's  an  seevenpence 
return,  forbye  tuppence  for  the  pier.  This  dirt 
maun  be  terrible  bad  for  yer  health,  Maister 
Ridhorn." 

The  painter  did  not  respond,  and  Agnes  had 
the  wit  to  refrain  from  further  discussion  of  the 
subect  now  nearest  her  heart,  and  to  apply  all 
her  energies  to  her  domestic  labours.  Being  no 


AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH       183 

politician,  she  probably  reflected  that,  after  all, 
her  actions  might  speak  louder  than  her  words. 


During  the  ensuing  three  days  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two  anticipated 
the  arrival  of  the  steamer  with  keener  anxiety, 
or  which  learned  of  the  non-arrival  of  Mrs. 
McFadyen  with  more  heart-felt  feelings  of 
relief. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  Agnes,  com- 
ing in  to  prepare  the  patient's  supper — Mr.  Red- 
horn,  by  the  way,  now  failed  to  remember  tastier 
suppers  even  from  the  hands  of  his  mother — 
brought  tidings.  Miss  Dewar,  the  local  dress- 
maker, 'had  received  from  the  absent  one  a 
picture  postcard  showing  Glasgow's  Municipal 
Buildings  and  bearing  the  pencilled  words  "Sink- 
ing rapidly." 

"That  means  she'll  no'  be  back  this  week," 
Agnes  said  cheerfully.  "Will  ye  tak'  yer  meddi- 
cine  afore  or  efter  yer  supper?" 

"Neither!"  replied  the  painter,  afraid  (quite 
unnecessarily)  of  looking  as  happy  as  he  felt. 
"It's  fair  supernatural  the  way  yer  cookin'  agrees 
wi'  me,  Agnes!  An'  it's  that  toothsome!" 

The  girl's  gratification  betrayed  itself  in  a 
small  giggle. 

"Ye're  lookin'  nane  the  waur  o'  it,  onyway. 
An'  ye've  got  a  corkin'  appetite." 


184  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

"A  gladiator  couldna  ha'e  better." 

While  she  prepared  the  meal  (strictly  in  ac- 
cordance with  instructions  supplied  by  her 
eldest  sister)  Mr.  Redhorn  once  more  surveyed 
his  abode.  Never  before  had  it  appeared  so 
clean  and  sweet,  so  homely  and  comfortable. 
Indeed,  it  seemed  to  lack  nothing  but  fresh  paint, 
and  Agnes  and  he  had  already  decided  upon 
the  colours  to  be  applied  as  soon  as  health  and 
time  permitted. 

Undoubtedly  the  girl  had  worked  hard,  yet 
she  had  done  so  without  making  any  elaborate 
display  of  her  capabilities.  Mr.  Redhorn  no 
longer  remonstrated  with  her;  he  frankly  en- 
joyed her  company,  and  spent  most  of  her  pe- 
riods of  absence  in  wondering  what  he  could 
buy  for  her  when  he  should  be  fit  to  travel  to 
the  city.  Moreover,  he  was  not  allowed  to 
weary  in  the  evenings,  for  Agnes's  father  or 
brother  dropped  in  with  the  village  news,  and 
also  with  friendly  tokens  in  the  shape  of  newly 
baked  scones  and  freshly  churned  butter.  Other 
neighbours,  too,  paid  him  little  friendly  atten- 
tions, and  altogether  he  was  beginning  to  enjoy 
what  he  termed  "the  sweets  o'  popularity." 

Nevertheless,  he  would  fain  have  had  only  the 
girl's  company.  When  he  came  to  realize  quite 
clearly  that  she  was  deliberately  seeking  to  oust 
Mrs.  McFadyen  from  favour,  he  permitted  the 
knowledge  to  become  a  satisfaction  to  his  soul 


AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH       185 

and  sought  to  ignore  the  intermittent  tweaks  of 
conscience.  It  would  be  difficult  to  express  in 
so  many  words  the  state  of  mind  of  Joseph 
Redhorn  in  these  days ;  he  could  not  have  done 
so  for  himself;  but  undoubtedly  he  was  indulg- 
ing in  a  flirtation  with  Youth  in  the  abstract  and 
struggling  to  be  faithful  to  Age  in  the  actual, 
at  one  and  the  same  time.  Agnes,  with  her 
warmth  of  kindliness,  her  glints  of  sentiment, 
her  transparent  plottings,  her  sparklings  of 
humour,  her  bright  impertinences,  and  her  burn- 
ing enthusiasm  for  orderliness,  was  an  experience 
as  refreshing  as  it  was  new  to  Joseph.  She 
had  freed  more  than  his  home  from  staleness. 

On  the  Sunday  evening,  while  tidying  up  pre- 
paratory to  going  home,  Agnes,  who  had  man- 
aged all  day  to  avoid  reference  to  Mrs.  McFad- 
yen,  said  casually: 

"I  wonder  hoo  she's  gettin'  on?" 

"Wha?"  inquired  the  painter,  with  an  ill- 
feigned  lack  of  comprehension. 

"Her." 

"Her?  .  .  .  Dae  ye  mean  Mistress  McFad- 
yen,  Agnes?" 

"Ay.  .  .  .  Were  you  no'  wonderin'  aboot 
her?" 

Mr.  Redhorn  could  tell  a  lie,  but  not  to  save 
his  own  face.  "By  a  curious  coincidence,"  he 
confessed,  "I  was." 


i86  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  girl  said  in  low- 
ered tones: 

"Dae  ye  think  the  auld  auntie'll  ha'e  sunk 
yet?" 

"Agnes,"  he  returned,  "it  wud  be  mair  respect- 
ful to  use  the  word  'departed.'" 

"Sorry.  ...  I'm  sure  it'll  be  a'  the  same 
to  her,  puir  auld  thing.  I  hope  Mistress  Mc- 
Fadyen  was  nice  to  her." 

"Aw,  I  think  we  can  gi'e  her  credit  for  that." 

Agnes  gave  a  slight  sniff.  "Maister  Ridhorn," 
she  began,  and  halted. 

"What  is  it,  Agnes?" 

"Maister  Ridhorn,  what'll  ye  dae  if  she  doesna 
want  to  serve  ye  again?" 

"I'm  wonderin'  what  I'll  dae  if  she  does!" 
the  painter  exclaimed.  Then  hurriedly :  "Na,  na ; 
I  didn't  mean  that,  lassie.  It  wasna  a  fair  thing 
to  say." 

Agnes's  flush  of  delight  died  away.  She 
turned  her  back  to  him  and  proceeded  to  put 
the  dishes  in  the  cupboard.  "I — I  suppose  there 
wud  be  nae  chance  for  me?"  she  said  in  little 
more  than  a  whisper. 

Mr.  Redhorn  writhed.  "What  can  I  say, 
Agnes?"  he  muttered.  "What  can  I  say?" 

"Maybe  ye  think  I'm  ower  young." 

"Na,  na.  That's  the  glorious  thing  aboot  ye. 
But — but — oh  dear  me,  there's  nae  use  speakin' 
aboot  it  till  we  ken  mair  nor  we  dae." 


AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH       187 

Agnes  sighed  as  she  closed  the  cupboard. 
"Aweel,  it's  time  I  was  gettin'  hame."  With  a 
look  of  scarcely  veiled  reproach  she  moved  to- 
wards the  door. 

"I  didna  mean  to  offend  ye,  ma  dear,"  he 
cried. 

"Oh,  I'm  no'  offended.  Guid  nicht,  Maister 
Rid'horn  !  See  ye  in  the  mornin'.  Ham  an'  eggs, 
I  suppose?" 

"Agnes,  come  here  an'  shake  han's,  seein'  it's 
the  Sabbath  nicht." 

She  came  back,  recovered  from  her  fit  of 
despondency,  smiling  in  her  usual  friendly  way. 
"I  wasna  offended,  really.  But — ye'll  gi'e  me 
the  chance,  if  ye  can,  eh?" 

"Guid  kens,  I  will.  Mind,  Agnes,  whatever 
happens,  I'm  grateful.  The  Lord  bless  ye! 
Guid  nicht!" 

"Guid  nicht,  Maister  Ridhorn !  I'll  be  doon  at 
nine  sharp.  I — I  hope  she'll  no'  come  back  till 
ye're  quite  better,  onyway." 

The   door   closed   behind   her. 

"My,  but  youth's  a  bonny  thing!"  he  mur- 
mured. 

It  was  a  little  before  nine  when  the  knock 
came. 

"Come  in!"  he  cried  blithely. 
And  Mrs.  McFadyen  entered. 
With  an  almost  sick  feeling  Mr.  Redhorn 


i88  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

gazed  at  the  drab  and  withered  creature.  "Yer 
aunt?"  he  stammered. 

"Oh,  ma  aunt  had  an  operation  on  Friday,  an' 
noo  she's  gettin'  better.  The  doctor  says  she's 
guid  for  ten  year  yet."  The  statement  was  de- 
livered without  enthusiasm. 

Mr.  Redhorn  pulled  his  wits  together.  "I'm 
gled  to  hear  it,"  he  said,  with  all  the  politeness 
at  'his  command. 

"I  dare  say  ye  are!  It  cost  me  three  shillin's 
a'  but  a  penny."  Mrs.  McFadyen,  who  had  been 
peering  about  the  apartment,  now  produced  a 
series  of  noisy  sniffs.  "There's  a  queer  smell 
here !"  she  remarked  at  last,  aggressively. 

"Ye  mean  a  fragrance,  maybe,"  he  suggested. 
"In  ither  words,  a  fresh  an'  pleasin'  odour." 

"Weel,  I've  smelt  worse,"  she  admitted,  won- 
idering,  poor  woman,  whether  she  might  venture 
to  ask  forthwith  for  her  last  week's  wages,  also 
how  much  extra  she  might  demand  for  cooking 
his  meals  during  the  current  week.  "Ay,  I've 
smelt  worse,"  she  repeated,  almost  graciously. 

"Wud  ye  say  it  was  the  fragrance  o'  soap, 
Mistress  McFadyen?" 

"Soap?" 

"Or— Youth?" 

At  that  Mrs.  McFadyen  faced  the  painter  and 
simply  gaped. 

"Youth,"  repeated  Mr.  Redhorn,  with  a  feeble 
grin.  "Ye  ken  what  that  is.'' 


AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH      189 

She  took  a  stride  forward,  and  peered  into 
his  face. 

"I  thought  it  was  yer  leg  that  was  hurt,"  she 
said,  and  touched  her  forehead  suggestively. 

The  door  opened.  Agnes,  in  her  rough  apron, 
stood  on  the  threshold. 

"Hullo!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  poor  attempt 
at  lightness.  "Ye've  got  back.  Is  yer  aunt  no* 
deid?" 

Understanding  came  to  Mrs.  McFadyen.  She 
wheeled  rounjl. 

"Ay,  I've  got  back,"  she  snapped.  "What  dae 
ye  want?" 

The  eyes  of  Agnes  sought  the  painter's  in  ap- 
peal. The  helpless  man  shrank  in  his  chair. 

"What  dae  ye  want,  girl?"  the  woman  re- 
peated. 

Agnes  nerved  herself. 

"It's  time  Maister  Ridhorn  was  getcin'  his 
breakfast,"  she  said. 

"I'll  attend  to  that." 

"Ye  dinna  ken  what  he's  to  get  for  his  break- 
fast." 

"That's  enough,"  cried  the  woman  in  a  fury. 
"Awa'  hame  wi'  ye !  Ye've  nae  business  here !" 

"Whisht,  whisht!"  the  painter  whispered  dis- 
tractedly. 

"She's  nae  business  here!"  Mrs.  McFayden 
stamped  her  foot.  "D'ye  hear  me,  Agnes  Fraser? 
Gang!" 


Agnes  wavered,  but  held  her  ground. 

"I'll  thenk  ye  for  ma  money,"  she  said. 

"What  money  ?" 

"The  money  ye  promised  me  for  daein'  yer 
work." 

"I  never  promised  ye.  ...  Weel,  weel,  yell 
get  yer  money  in  guid  time." 

Agnes  expressed  her  doubts  by  a  toss  of  her 
head,  accompanied  by  a  sniff,  and  made  a  remark 
in  which  "pigsty"  was  the  most  audible  word. 

"What?"  Mrs.  McFadyen  advanced  upon  the 
girl. 

"For  ony  favour — "  began  Mr.  Redhorn,  mak- 
ing an  effort  to  rise. 

"Ye'll  hurt  yer  ankle,"  the  girl  called.  "Never 
heed  her.  She'll  no'  touch  me  twice." 

Mrs.  McFadyen  hesitated;  she  was  almost 
dancing. 

"Will  ye  gang?"  she  screeched. 

Agnes  deliberately  folded  her  slim  arms 
across  her  young  bosom,  and  said : 

"I'll  gang — when  Maister  Ridhorn  tells  me  to 
gang." 

"Oh,  criftens!"  gasped  the  painter,  falling 
back  in  his  chair. 

A  palpitating  silence  ensued.  It  lasted  until 
the  woman,  with  a  wail,  said: 

"Bid  her  gang,  Maister  Ridhorn,  bid  her 
gang !" 


AN  INTRUSION  OF  YOUTH       191 

"Bid  her  gang,  Maister  Ridhorn,"  said  Agnes, 
with  a  sob.  "She  canna  keep  yer  hoose  nice." 

"I've  kep'  it  for  twinty  year,"  said  Mrs.  Mc- 
Fadyen,  dread  getting  the  better  of  resentment. 
"There's  no*  a  place  in  Fairport  was  better 
kep'— " 

"In  dirt!" 

"Peace,  lassie,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  at  his  wits' 
end. 

"Dae  ye  want  me  to  gang?"  she  asked  re- 
proachfully. "Ye  maun  be  starvin'  for  yer 
breakfast.  Look  at  her!  She  would  let  ye 
starve.  She  deserves  to  get  the  sack!" 

At  these  words  all  the  woman's  fury  came 
back.  A  torrent  of  bitter  invective  poured  from 
her  lips. 

Mr.  Redhorn  shuddered.  He  held  up  his  'hand 
to  stay  the  girl's  retort. 

"Agnes,"  he  said  sadly,  "I  think  ye  best  re- 
tire." 

"Gang?  ...  Oh,  Maister  Ridhorn!" 

Mrs.  McFadyen  emitted  a  cackle  of  triumph — 
which  was  a  mistake  on  her  part. 

"An'  return  in  five  meenutes,"  the  painter 
added. 

Agnes  gave  him  one  look,  and  went  out. 

What  happened  during  the  next  five  minutes 
has  never  been  explicitly  disclosed  by  either 
party.  All  that  need  be  known,  however,  is  that 
Mrs.  McFayden  calls  on  Mr.  Redhorn  every 


192  THE  MISADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 

Saturday  morning  to  receive  certain  pieces  of 
silver  for  which  she  has  done  no  apparent  work. 


"Noo  for  the  ham  an'  eggs !"  cried  Agnes,  as 
soon  as  she  had  recovered  from  the  good  news, 
and  had  absorbed  the  mild  warning  to  the  effect 
that  Mrs.  McFadyen  was  not  to  be  considered 
an  object  for  derision. 

"Ham  an'  eggs,"  sighed  the  painter.  "In  the 
meantime  I'll  be  obleeged  if  ye'll  pass  me  doon 
the  Elixir." 

"Are  ye  feelin'  no'  weel?"  she  exclaimed 
anxiously. 

"I'm  sufferin'  frae  what  the  novelles  ca'  a 
revulsion  o'  feelin'." 

Her  look  of  horror  passed  at  his  kindly  smile. 

"I  think,"  she  said  cheerfully,  "you  an'  me's 
gaun  to  be  fairly  happy — eh  ?" 

"I  confess  to  a  similar  forebodin',"  he  re- 
plied. 

While  she  got  busy,  he  thoughtfully  regarded 
his  glass  of  physic. 

"Youth's  a  bonny  thing,"  he  murmured,  "but 
I'm  afraid  it's  an  expensive  luxury — espaycially 
when  it's  female.  Still" — he  gulped  the  dose  and 
pulled  a  face — "I  wudna  wonder  if  it's  worth 
the  money." 

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